Life On A Sunday. That is All.
In a small apartment on the East Side of Manhattan, a girl (woman?) sits at a desk, writing thank you notes for her wedding, which took place just over a month ago.
She doesn't feel any different afterwards than before, but she doesn't feel exactly the same, either.
Or maybe that means she feels different, after all?
She writes out the notes herself. Her husband is out of town.
She thinks:
I have a husband. He is out of town.
She thinks:
I am a woman (girl?). Living in Manhattan. I have a husband who is out of town.
Her puppy sleeps in a patch of sunlight on the floor, occasionally flexing a little paw or whining, as if in a little puppy dream.
Some people have suggested the puppy is practice for a baby. the girl (woman?) does not know about this. She gently strokes the puppy's velvety ears and murmurs sweet things like "Hi, Sleepy," and "Hi, Sweet Pea."
She realizes that these phrases sound almost the same.
The woman (girl?) does not mind writing the thank you notes by herself. It is cathartic. It allows her to think, and to dream. It allows her to put the wedding day behind her and focus on all of the things that lay ahead.
She is not sure why, but she feels strongly she needs to do this.
She thinks of the future. She sees a room--a warm room, a table set for dinner. She thinks of love and laughter and food and ideas shared and ideas lost.
She sees the firsts and the lasts. She sees a door closed and a door opened.
She sees all of these things coming, and she wants to reach out and grab it right now. There are days when she does not want to be patient.
She notices, in the notebook in which she writes, that her writing is much bigger at the end than at the beginning. She hopes that the same is true of her own life--she hopes that things are bigger at the end than at the beginning. She thinks of the writer who extolled the virtues of living big.
Her hands are cramping from writing the thank you's, but not from writing.
She decides it is time for lunch. She slices heirloom tomatoes she bought yesterday at the market--all vivid purples and yellows and reds.
She pauses to consider the differing colors, the differing shapes and sizes.
They are beautiful.
She dresses the salad with a little olive oil, a little sea salt, a little fresh black pepper.
She takes the first bite and wonders why she often searches for more, when the simple things make a much stronger statement.
As she pours herself a glass of chardonnay, she wonders if she can apply this philosophy to her life as well: A little olive oil, a little sea salt, a little pepper.
The chardonnay is disappointing, though. Sauvingon blanc, she thinks. Like minerals and clean water and maybe a little bit of freshly cut grass. Next time.
She takes another sip, nonetheless. She is happy to be not in the first person today. She can't think of the last time she wasn't.
She doesn't feel any different afterwards than before, but she doesn't feel exactly the same, either.
Or maybe that means she feels different, after all?
She writes out the notes herself. Her husband is out of town.
She thinks:
I have a husband. He is out of town.
She thinks:
I am a woman (girl?). Living in Manhattan. I have a husband who is out of town.
Her puppy sleeps in a patch of sunlight on the floor, occasionally flexing a little paw or whining, as if in a little puppy dream.
Some people have suggested the puppy is practice for a baby. the girl (woman?) does not know about this. She gently strokes the puppy's velvety ears and murmurs sweet things like "Hi, Sleepy," and "Hi, Sweet Pea."
She realizes that these phrases sound almost the same.
The woman (girl?) does not mind writing the thank you notes by herself. It is cathartic. It allows her to think, and to dream. It allows her to put the wedding day behind her and focus on all of the things that lay ahead.
She is not sure why, but she feels strongly she needs to do this.
She thinks of the future. She sees a room--a warm room, a table set for dinner. She thinks of love and laughter and food and ideas shared and ideas lost.
She sees the firsts and the lasts. She sees a door closed and a door opened.
She sees all of these things coming, and she wants to reach out and grab it right now. There are days when she does not want to be patient.
She notices, in the notebook in which she writes, that her writing is much bigger at the end than at the beginning. She hopes that the same is true of her own life--she hopes that things are bigger at the end than at the beginning. She thinks of the writer who extolled the virtues of living big.
Her hands are cramping from writing the thank you's, but not from writing.
She decides it is time for lunch. She slices heirloom tomatoes she bought yesterday at the market--all vivid purples and yellows and reds.
She pauses to consider the differing colors, the differing shapes and sizes.
They are beautiful.
She dresses the salad with a little olive oil, a little sea salt, a little fresh black pepper.
She takes the first bite and wonders why she often searches for more, when the simple things make a much stronger statement.
As she pours herself a glass of chardonnay, she wonders if she can apply this philosophy to her life as well: A little olive oil, a little sea salt, a little pepper.
The chardonnay is disappointing, though. Sauvingon blanc, she thinks. Like minerals and clean water and maybe a little bit of freshly cut grass. Next time.
She takes another sip, nonetheless. She is happy to be not in the first person today. She can't think of the last time she wasn't.
posted by east side girl at 1:41 PM
6 Comments:
I'm right there with you, from the tomatoes to the wine to the post-wedding emotions. Third person is very good sometimes.
I love this post.
very nice.
what a lovely post...
Can I marry this post???
your third person story has inspired me to think in the third person. also, Sauvingon blanc is the best wine ever!
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