J.

By the tall tree, outside the house, opposite the swing gently swaying in the wind, J. sat on a patch of soil, wrapped in a thin nylon blanket. She had been sitting there, awake all night and she was now, with a wooden stick, drawing vacant smiles in the soil. The same soil he had chased her, around the tree, when they first brought the piece of land – when only the tree stood there. She always thought herself a plain looking girl, her freckles and pink cheeks pale into a sickly light complexion. She had always been unexceptional – her school tests were pedestrian, her marriage practicable, and her career, lusterless. She had one daughter, her name was K., but K. had left for her studies abroad.

J. stood up slowly, gazing across, outside her gates now. She knew that down the road, there was a playground, and that because it was early still, it was still and silent, except that the wind will be gently rustling the dead leaves. She felt she could hear it. She closed her eyes. It must be so beautiful. They were there some evenings, when K were still young, both furtively afraid for K., but restrainted themselves nonetheless. It was the same road that led to town, via an expressway, and she could imagine taking a journey there now. To town, where by the time she reached, the stores would be opened and she could order a strong cup of coffee like he always did and perhaps live again.

Yet, there were things to be done. Flowers to be re-arranged, and windows to be wiped. She walked steadily, with a sense of purpose now. A list of things to be done was now forming in her head. A list, which she used to recite to him – half knowing that repetition will irritate him – which she enjoyed doing, because of the expression of mock exasperation. That was when she knew he truly loved her. He used to joke about it, do you think about the list during sex, you obsessed housewife, he once asked. No, she did not.