The Hobby

Air. Clean, fresh, life-sustaining air. Finally. She promised him this would be the end. No more. She didn’t need them. For certain. Absolutely, the end.  I wish she had been honest. I wish she had even attempted to keep her promise. I suppose I am naive to think he was important enough to quit  “her hobby”, as she liked to call it. Creating and nurturing the life of her own children wasn’t reason enough. A fool would believe he would be a better reason.

We all live in fear of being the chosen one. Truly. Stop your heart, take your breath away fear. As it were, I was the chosen one this time, amongst others of course, but I can only speak for myself. The suffocation began almost immediately. The bag that I was transported away in reeked of the offending odor. It’s color long passed the cheerful pink and orange paisley print. I wondered how quickly she was able to read. Did she honor the three-week due date, or where overdue fines simply something that appeared; and that she somehow never brought her wallet in to settle up her account. I began to count the minutes, the hours, the days.

We arrived to a darkened house. The woman thought it odd, as he normally arrived home before her and started to prepare their dinner. She ran through her mind their morning conversation. Had he mentioned a meeting, plans for the evening that did not include her? Nothing surfaced. She reached for the bag, snubbed out “her hobby” and bustled through the door. The scent of stale smoke and melon tangerine air freshener clung to the contents of the room. She emptied her tired bag out, leaving me to gag as I hit the couch with a thud hard enough to open my cover and allow my pages to ruffle a bit. It was then that I noticed her face, a look that quickly moved from quizzical, to shock and then one of fear. I looked to where her eyes landed. There was only a note. A note carefully secured on a table with an empty packet of “the hobby”.  He was gone.


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