Home | Articles | Bloopers | Episode Guide | Fan Fiction | FAQ | Forums | Gallery | Links | Transcripts
WTB?R Home • WTB?R Archives
A New Time For Us [ - ]
by connecticutty
Table of Contents [Report This]
Printer Chapter or Story

- Text Size +

Author's Notes:
It seems like I never really finish my stories... please bear with me ;). This is the start of a new one with a certain similarity of topic to an older one ;) ... I would like to combine it with "away" some time but I still try to figure out how. For the meantime, I hope you like the beginnig of this one.

She was getting up at seven as usual. The usual flinching to the off-going alarm. The morning routine. Get up, crawling to the bathroom. Switch. Bright lights. One of these days I got to get this light changed. Look into the mirror, finger tips pressing the cheeks up. Gravity. Grimacing. Then a quick shake with the head, shake it all of. The water pours into her hands, warm and soft, soothing. She touches her face with the water. She glances back into the mirror little streams of water run down her cheeks dripping from her eyes lashes. Tears mingled with chlorine water. She grabs the towel on the left and damps her face with it. Hurry. Take a shower. She feels the soft satin textures of the light brown foundation between her fingertips, she reaches out for her face and applies the colour. In circles she tints her face, the vanilla coloured parts slowly vanishing the caramel ones gaining superiority. Perfect, immaculate. Perfect version of oneself. Blush to look fresh. And there she walks downstairs ready to face the world but not ready to face him. A halt before the swing door, one deep breath and a practised smile. “Good Morning!” she sits down. “No just juice and coffee will be fine.” Are my eyes still red from crying? Does it show? No, no, he does not realize it. The little mascara trick worked magic; does she have to use make up? “When will you be home tonight?” When, good God, when? Never! I’d like to call out but that is not a time. “I don’t know yet”, I said truthfully “could be that I’m working late.” That was technically no lie. If I had wanted to I could have spent the last few years non-stop in my office working but I had not wanted then. Once there was a time when I would say, I’ll be home at eight, Tony, no, I won’t miss your lasagne for the world. But today there is nothing making me long to get home. “Good, ‘cause I’ll be at the library working on that presentation, will put you some pasta in the fridge. You just heat it, right” “Tony, I can handle it.” I have gotten abnormally brilliant in saying that. It was my new thing: I can handle it or I’ll be fine when really I was not fine - but so much was true, I could handle it. I handled a divorce, I handled being a single mom, I handle my business and tonight I would handle heating a pasta dish left for me in the fridge. I smiled in resentment, if this wasn’t so damn sad it would be actually funny. Tears filled my eyes. Here it comes, a melodrama in which I had the lead. I promised myself I would no longer watch this kind of films ignorantly entertained by the unfortunate main character dealing with her messed up life. Real life drama in my kitchen, I analysed. Has he seen my tears? No, no, he is shovelling pancakes on a plate. Does she eat pancakes in the morning? I set down the half empty coffee mug, time to go. I stood up and said bye to Tony. “Bye, Angela. See you tonight –or no, see you tomorrow, huh!” he said. Right. Given that when he’d be coming home from the library, she would already be in bed pretending to sleep. Angela left for work without Mona this morning. She’d asked Angela for a free Friday so that she could have a long weekend in Vegas with Chris or was it Tom? No, no, most certainly it was Chris. Work was good. It made her forget about her private problems. Uh, what a euphemism! Misery would be the appropriate term here. In the morning she caught up on her correspondences, no answer postponed, no call not returned. After that was done - after all it took her all morning, business was good -she had a quick lunch at a beautiful Italian restaurant. She had seen “Adriano’s” a couple of times before when she went off to lunch but she had always passed the inviting little tables out front without a second glance, because “you are not going to betray my cooking, are you Angela?” he had said puppy-eyes and all when she’d once told him of the place. No, she would not have cheated on Tony with “Andriano’s”. But today she did not pass the tables but sat down at one of them. Doubts? It is a restaurant, for god sakes! You could have had Chinese. No, I feel like Italian. “Buon giorno signora!” It was too late anyway. She ordered a white wine spritzer and the spaghetti with freshly made tomato sauce and basil. Different, certainly, but not bad. She thought taking another bite. “Lei piacciono gli spaghetti?” the waiter asked and then added when Angela did not immediately answered “you like them spaghetti?” “Oh, they are very good.” Angela smiled satisfied. “Very.” She added emphatically. The waiter made a slight bow and was gone. Her smile faded and her eyes watered. Sad, Angela, you are so sad! These spaghetti are good, sure, but not that good. But it felt good for a moment getting back at Tony by eating one of his special dishes made by another cook, another guy. Oh, pathetic! She suddenly felt the need to get out of the restaurant as fast as possible.