![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Err...in honour of Saint Patrick's Day? Enough Cliche's in the thing to accompany this peculiarly American holiday... *ducks*
The Waiting
(Word Count: 581)
1998 or '99
I stood there, a liar in white, leaning back against the icebox. Watching relatives and friends mill about, flowing from the living room into the kitchen and back again.
I wasn't showing yet. Even if I had been, no one would have said a word about it. Not at the reception itself. The next day, I knew without even being told that my mother's friends clustered around her down at the market, fussing like little hens over her impending grandmotherhood. Not an ideal situation, but now that Tom had done the right thing...
Been forced into doing the decent thing. Insofar as he'd been collared the minute I'd given him up. He'd had a close talking to, man-to-man, with my Da. Oh, no literal shotguns had been in evidence. Then again, considering some of the men my Da had been seen talking to down at Murphy's in the evenings...
It didn't matter. I clutched a handful of tulle, momentarily bunching it up before me in imitation of the shape I'd soon be taking, as I lifted my dragging skirt, pasted a smile on my face, and trudged out to the living room and dining alcove, to the table littered with picked-over trays of food, to play the Joyful Bride. To my husband where he stood, being slapped on the back heartily by sympathetic friends.
They got you at last, Tommy...
I was honest enough, though, not to pin it all on Tommy Sullivan. After all, I'd spread my legs willingly enough to his charm and enthusiasm. As had other girls in town, unidentified, phantoms lurking behind his twinkling eyes and experienced hands...
And I was the one who'd caught. Caught *him*. The thing was, I'd not known him long enough at that point to know if I should throw him back.
Too late now.
We didn't have the money for a proper honeymoon, so we post-poned it. We'd take a trip up to Belfast in the summer, we told everyone. In the meantime, Tommy had his mechanic's job at the cannery, and I was a counter-girl in the Notions Department at Fulham's.
It was enough. We worked, met in the evenings in our second-floor walk-up for supper, and struggled together at night, tangled in threadbare but clean sheets. If Tommy held a grudge, he was quite willing to put it aside, there in the dark.
At least until I began to swell. By six months I had grown uncomfortable and awkward, and Tommy politely abstained from his conjugal duties. He still brought home the majority of his pay, stood tall in church every Sunday, and lifted a pint or three with his friends every Thursday night during their weekly darts match.
In return, I didn't inquire too deeply into some of his perignations.
I would lie awake, nursing a case of heartburn as I stared up at the ceiling, dimly lit with halos of street-lamp light, and reflect upon the past six months. It had been a nice enough honeymoon. The first half-year, I mean, not the trip to Belfast.
Ah, Tommy, why did you have to be such a Tomcat?
And I grew larger, and waited patiently for my new purpose to be born.
-----
Sound interesting? Should I find if there's more story to this? (Can I find it, 3-4 years after that initial inspiration?) Or shoud it remain just what it is, a cynical fragment?
The Waiting
(Word Count: 581)
1998 or '99
I stood there, a liar in white, leaning back against the icebox. Watching relatives and friends mill about, flowing from the living room into the kitchen and back again.
I wasn't showing yet. Even if I had been, no one would have said a word about it. Not at the reception itself. The next day, I knew without even being told that my mother's friends clustered around her down at the market, fussing like little hens over her impending grandmotherhood. Not an ideal situation, but now that Tom had done the right thing...
Been forced into doing the decent thing. Insofar as he'd been collared the minute I'd given him up. He'd had a close talking to, man-to-man, with my Da. Oh, no literal shotguns had been in evidence. Then again, considering some of the men my Da had been seen talking to down at Murphy's in the evenings...
It didn't matter. I clutched a handful of tulle, momentarily bunching it up before me in imitation of the shape I'd soon be taking, as I lifted my dragging skirt, pasted a smile on my face, and trudged out to the living room and dining alcove, to the table littered with picked-over trays of food, to play the Joyful Bride. To my husband where he stood, being slapped on the back heartily by sympathetic friends.
They got you at last, Tommy...
I was honest enough, though, not to pin it all on Tommy Sullivan. After all, I'd spread my legs willingly enough to his charm and enthusiasm. As had other girls in town, unidentified, phantoms lurking behind his twinkling eyes and experienced hands...
And I was the one who'd caught. Caught *him*. The thing was, I'd not known him long enough at that point to know if I should throw him back.
Too late now.
We didn't have the money for a proper honeymoon, so we post-poned it. We'd take a trip up to Belfast in the summer, we told everyone. In the meantime, Tommy had his mechanic's job at the cannery, and I was a counter-girl in the Notions Department at Fulham's.
It was enough. We worked, met in the evenings in our second-floor walk-up for supper, and struggled together at night, tangled in threadbare but clean sheets. If Tommy held a grudge, he was quite willing to put it aside, there in the dark.
At least until I began to swell. By six months I had grown uncomfortable and awkward, and Tommy politely abstained from his conjugal duties. He still brought home the majority of his pay, stood tall in church every Sunday, and lifted a pint or three with his friends every Thursday night during their weekly darts match.
In return, I didn't inquire too deeply into some of his perignations.
I would lie awake, nursing a case of heartburn as I stared up at the ceiling, dimly lit with halos of street-lamp light, and reflect upon the past six months. It had been a nice enough honeymoon. The first half-year, I mean, not the trip to Belfast.
Ah, Tommy, why did you have to be such a Tomcat?
And I grew larger, and waited patiently for my new purpose to be born.
-----
Sound interesting? Should I find if there's more story to this? (Can I find it, 3-4 years after that initial inspiration?) Or shoud it remain just what it is, a cynical fragment?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
Hey Bex...please find it...I'd like to read more.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject