| It is a bright but cold day, and gold finches titter from Jill�s windowsill. She wakes up slowly, and yawns. Her clock radio hasn�t gone off yet, and she fights the urge to go back to sleep. She rolls over, expecting to see Roy lying beside her, but the bed is empty. Inching her way to the bathroom, Jill finds the door open. They never close the door when having showers anymore, not since their children went to university. Feeling a newfound freedom, Jill and Roy would spend days in their bed - lounging, cuddling but not often making love. Her husband�s naked form shimmers behind the shower�s semi-translucent glass encasement. The old, yet not lost, feeling of lust flutters in her depths. Anne is shaken awake by her mother, since her Winnie the Pooh alarm clock is ineffectual in this morning ritual. Rolling onto her side, she pulls her pink sheets over her head and mumbles something about hating school and feeling ill. Her dreams are overcome by images of helpless women and handsome, quasi-sexual knights in shining armour with long lances that she is only starting to understand represent something more than mere protection. She is pulled onto her feet by some unnatural force, her twelve year old frame teetering and almost crashing onto her clothes-littered floor. Anne, clumsy and pubescent, kicks at the floor to uncover some article of clothing that is not too small to wear on her developing body. Not seeing anything suitable, she covers herself once again in bed, determined to not go to school that day. Not far away, Joe shifts on the hard sidewalk - his ass is numb from the cold. *** With coffee in her hand and the remnants of a kiss on her lips, Jill gets into her newly acquired sporty SUV. Roy wanted all of the toys, all the bells and whistles, of a new car, without having the clutter from two children in the backseat. He couldn�t comprehend spending the money on a new car, only to have the interior spoiled by mud or crumbs within minutes of the children�s entry. �We�re like a newlywed couple now,� Roy told her on the car lot. �We can pick up and go camping with this thing.� While she nodded and smiled at the time, this notion seems so far from reality for the book-loving, symphony-going duo. Jill places her coffee gingerly into the small cup-holder and starts the engine. Taking one last, loving look at her crisp white home with its green shutters and perfectly trimmed garden, she pulls the car out of the driveway. The streets, like usual, are full with anxious, frustrated drivers. The sidewalks are crowded with men and women in business suits, children with cartoon character backpacks, and grimy homeless men and women hoping for a handful of change. Several minutes into her drive, she is in the city�s busy center, and stopped at the first of many long red lights. Anne turns the corner, joining the crowd and bustle. She seems so young and innocent, but she is changing ever so slightly every day into another being. A half-formed butterfly. Her confused nature (both gentle and with its undercurrent of pre-teen angst) is a source of discomfort to the rest of the pedestrians, and they peel away from her. Several brave souls refuse to budge, and even venture closer to her. They hope to hear her whisper a tiny secret to them as she rushes by; they want her to impart the truth and secrets of her status as a changeling to regain the curiosity and naivety of childhood. Anne doesn�t notice any of this. She is unaware of their stares and inner chiding at her lanky posture, for the booming of her iPod covers everything. Joe inches his way through the crowd. He stands barely five feet tall, yet he crashes unsteadily through the endless oncoming flow, causing the other pedestrians to swerve out of his way. He swings his arms back and forth absentmindedly, and his disintegrated boots reveal his gangrene infected toes. The rank scent of his body odour builds, until it pervades a five foot radius. Those within its hold wrinkle their noses in disgust, look at one another as if to say �can he not smell himself? does he not care?� The offensive scent makes a few people cross the street. He sits on a sewer grate, hoping the putrid fumes will heat his frigid body, and begs (unsuccessfully) for change. |
| Three Lives in Montage |