Page 7 of Sweetest in the Gale
A portrait of Shakespeare, appropriately enough.
“Fair point,” he managed to say, aching for them both.
It was also a point he’d heard before. Across a dinner table, the words patient and loving. Whispered into his good ear in the hush of a dark bedroom. Shouted during one of their rare arguments, her graceful hands flung wide in emphasis.
No, not everyone enjoyed interpreting subtext. Not all the time.
He closed his eyes.
Metaphors and poetry are wonderful. But sometimes people need to hear the actual words, love. Marianne had cupped his face, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks, her hair tumbled on a shared pillow.SometimesIneed to hear the actual words. ‘I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m sad. I love you.’
Sometimes I can’t find direct words that encompass everything I want to say, everything I feel, he’d protested.
Consider them handholds. Her fingers were warm and tender on his skin.Easily grasped in hard moments. Easily understood. Easily supplemented with a few good metaphors or lines of poetry. I know your family didn’t talk about feelings, but you’re direct about everything else in your life, Griffin. You can do it. It’ll just take some practice.
She was almost always gentle, and she was always kind. To him, her family, the students she counseled, everyone.
I’ll try harder, he’d told her.I promise.I love you.
Her smile was as sincere, as open, as she herself was.Thank you, love.
He’d nuzzled into her cupped hand.And now, please stand by for metaphorical supplementation. Or, rather, lay by.
Is that what you’re calling it? Metaphorical supplementation? Really?
As she’d laughed, he’d surged forward to capture her mouth. Tumbled her beneath him. Marianne. His wife. His…everything.
He blinked his eyes open, bewildered and squinting in the harsh classroom lights.
The memory…
For the first time, it prompted a fierce ache, but didn’t rend his heart anew. And somehow, that felt like yet another loss.
When had the sting of remembering his wife—hiswife—become almost bearable? And what did that say about him, his constancy, his vows?
“Griff?” The word was loud. Sharp with concern.
He resurfaced and focused.
Candy. That was Candy, not Marianne.
Even lost in his past, there was no mistaking one for the other. The two women could hardly be more different, which burned like bile in his throat some nights.
Candy had set aside the poster. She was eyeing him carefully, somberly, her glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Sorry. I was thinking. About...” He fumbled. Shoved back his hair and grasped for words easier than the truth. “I was thinking about whether you’d have your Frankenstein initiative again this year.”
Still watchful, she shook her head. “I’ve decided to implement four-year cycles.”
“So most students experience each initiative during their time in Marysburg High, but you don’t get bored doing the same thing year after year.” He scratched his bearded chin, still fidgety. “Clever.”
The slight curve of her lips was charmingly smug. “No need for more frequent repetition. Students don’t tend to forget my initiatives.”
“No.” His unexpected bark of laughter hurt his tight chest. “I imagine they don’t.”
“Will you help me with this last poster?” She tilted her head to the left of the door. “I want it over there.”
In response, he grabbed the level and tape dispenser and crossed the room, grateful for the opportunity to occupy his hands and distract himself from his troubling thoughts.
