©2021

A Washington Night

The rain thrummed down against the bay window.

Gazing at it from across the room, he watched the rivulets stream down the panes.

The light of the fire was the only illumination in the otherwsie darkened room.

He stood there, breathing quietly, and deeply – almost trancelike.

When he had come into the foyer from the street, water sloshing from his raincoat, and his shoes, it was almost all he could do to shed himself of the soaking overgarments, loosen his tie, strip off his suit coat, kick off his shoes – and move fluidly into the alcove off the living room. The little recess that housed the full bar – everything set out on a trestle table, with a small mini-fridge beneath it. 

He had picked up the remote from the bar top and without even loooking, pointed it over his shoulder and heard the satisfying hiss as the gas fireplace ignited.

Pouring a 12 year old single malt in a cut crystal glass, adding a splash of spring water, he had turned to be watching as he was now.

The silence, aside from the rhythym of the rain and the soft swish of the fireplace, soothed his jangled nerves.

Head back against the frame of the alcove, he closed his eyes momentarily.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then with a visible shudder, he let out a deep breath, and seemd to melt into the surrounding woodwork.

It was the aftermath of the terrible tension and conflict which had been the compass for that day. It was the realisation, that now – now, finally, it was done. Finished. Over with.

Pointe finale!

He waited a moment then moved into the room, sat back into a plush lounge chair, dragged his feet up onto the ottoman and listened to the fire, listened to the rain –  listened to his heart, now finally beating in time to a serenity he feared he might never experience again.

It was a Friday night, in Washington DC. Actually, more precisely, in Georgetown. One of those ‘oh-so-discreet’ legacy row houses. With all the right kind of brass on the front door, the appropriate hedges and plants along the brick walkway….it was, proper.

And that was how he now finally felt – proper. Divested of the  abrasiveness of a shrieking wife, the accusations – unfounded, unjustified, irrational – of, an irrational mind. A mind that was housed inside a body, so exquisite, and behind a face so perfect, that he had wilted and withered in its presence.

©michael moore 2010