By Thea Atkinson
I was silent at breakfast, my mind still on the visions that had come to me while I slept. You were prancing about the kitchen in your shirt and tie, never imagining I was lost in thoughts of symbolism, Jungian archetypes, metaphors for self. Oblivious, as usual, you prattled on about what you wanted for dinner and exactly how I should prepare it for you.
My cornflakes stared back at me, turning to cornmush in the bowl you bought me for our third wedding anniversary.
Leather, the commercials said three years required, and you presented me with this cauldron decorated with a Harley harlot leaning against a motorcycle, naked except for a few fashion accessories.
Where was the leather, I'd asked you, and you smiled at me while you pointed. Ah, there, wrapped around the babe's waist, a painted black belt to match her painted leather boots. Knowing you, I realized you were telling me, in that typically smug manner of yours, that you wanted a surprise from me later. And I tried, really I did, but how can a regular girl compare?
That was just the beginning, and the beginning was just
last week. Ever since, I've dreamed of that woman, wondering what she represented
for me with her lips drying to leathered flaps, her boots turning to flesh…
maybe she is me, losing the desire to speak and gaining the urge to walk away.
Copyright © 2002 Thea Atkinson
Thea is an Atlantic Canadian writer with a couple of American publications on her list of credits. She's excited to add Vestal Review to Happy , ShyFlowers Garden, Art Thought Journal, Zygote, Captains of Consciousness, Canadian Stories, and CBC Radio One.