The Trials of a Writer

She had his picture memorized. Every wrinkle on his forehead, every freckle on his nose. That funny way he smiled, with his chin out and his teeth overlapping; she could see it all with her eyes closed. Of course, she’d looked at it enough over the past three months. Right after it happened she’d cry and cradle the poor substitute for her husband; rocking it back and forth. But it always changed. Sometimes she’d stare at the picture for hours, and talk to it. She’d make up responses for him, and pretend he was sitting in its place. Sometimes she’d argue with it, scream at it, and one week she even threw it against the wall.
Afterward the guilt started to seep in. What if he could see her love for him turn to hate? He hadn’t meant to cause the pain; it hadn’t been his fault. Just one of those freak things, you know? The next day she’d gone and had his picture put into a new frame, a blue one. It had been his favorite color. She put it on her bedside table and didn’t touch it again for two months.

She thought of him less and less these days, now that she was getting used to being alone.

Sometimes she’d make it through most of the day without thinking about him. Then she’d open the door to the dark apartment, flick on the lights and he’d be there, looking at her. She didn’t know how many times his toothy, awkward grin had startled her, sometimes making her spill groceries all over the carpeted floor. However many it was, she still couldn’t make herself realize that it was just a picture, and not actually her husband.

Hmm…..nothing seems to be working.