quiet frustration. a story.

untitled, marie edwards


the professor's wife had said that she'd be back and went to Berlin to see a major Lucien Freud retrospective. he hadn't opposed the decision but found himself turbulent that evening. he had medication to calm him, but a side-effect was insomnia so it made better sense to try and sleep.


*___*___*

unmedicated, the professor managed to convince himself in 25 minutes that (a) he had no friends and no one liked him (b) his wife had left him forever (in conformity with point (a)) (c) he had put on a regretful amount of weight (d) henceforth, life would be a long road of misfortune and abject failure.


*___*___*

of course there was no good reason for these conclusions, which the professor rightly knew. the professor also knew that 'knowing' something and matters of 'belief' are two entirely different sharp-edged instruments. to calm himself the professor looked through internet websites displaying artistic photography, and tried to make up stories to suit the various images he saw.


*___*___*

unlike cats which always land on their feet, people often land flat, compelling their heart to jerk forward and collide with the inside of their chest, for a moment being face to face with the floor. only she'd hadn't landed on the floor. and the floor (in this case) was not a house roof. at least, not in a literal sense. she had crawled out of a window, and climbed up. then she had turned onto her stomach and slid down into a stream of autumn that was waiting to carry her somewhere else. where she lived, streams, rivers and traffic conveniently had the habit of waiting for her to appear so that they might carry her onwards. midway down the roof's slant the stream stopped for some air and a sandwich and tea. she refused to speak, she hadn't anything to sad and she would not be coerced or cajoled into making a statement. rather, she sought to simply be dragged along. alas, the autumn stream, the tree besides the roof, and an energy-meter down below all asked repeatedly but, my dear, why the indian outfit? but she comforted her eyes with the delicious sensation of darkness, and tried to cram all if not all and some more into the insides of her closed eyelids so that her eyes would protrude out a little bit she imagined it to be like a secret hammock or a cave with a soft thin wall where she'd be safest safest safest and as she slowly maneuvered the right elbow and arm of her soul into the darkness of the eyelid she but, my dear, why the indian outfit? kept being interrupted.


*___*___*

too many of the artistic photographs he was looking at were nudes of attractive women. this vexed him. there is no greater aphrodisiac than knowing you won't be having sex for a while.


*___*___*

the real fear was in her legs. they just lay there, oddly. the stream could sense the young girl's will to move, but the legs remained perfectly... paralyzed. the tree stopped questioning her a moment to really think about what was happening, and the energy-meter hushed the autumn stream, and they all stopped to look at the girl.

out of the window a scream was heard.