The Lucky Ones

Just a short little reverie of fiction that came to mind this evening.

    "The mortgage payment is past due, honey, the energy bills are not paid," she whispered into the ink black bedroom (unable to see him but hearing his feet and the softly sighing slide of his clothes as he undressed). Though it was too dark to see him, and he did not speak, she knew he was shaking his head, uttering an unheard sigh somewhere deep inside. Times were hard. They were hard not only for them, but for most everyone, since the economy had taken such a turn after the war in the Middle East had finally ended.

 

    Across the wall and down the hall, three children slept soundly, huddled into one queen sized bed, in a tiny room --barely large enough to fit it, or they, or anything, really. In the kitchen, a thin, lazy cat lay curled near a bucket full of rainwater that had dripped from the sodden ceiling after the last summer storm, an hour before. There were also three such buckets in the little living area. Another, he stumbled into as he neared the bed, and she heard the water slosh abruptly as he carefully averted a spill with his foot, no doubt.

 

    "I'm sorry I haven't fixed the roof yet, dear. This weekend I should have the time and the money to do something, I hope. Though those bills also need attending to..." His voice came out heavy and thick, like curdled cream. This is how he spoke when worried and strained, which was most of the time, now. It had been so long since she had heard his laughter, which had once rang through the little house, always as sacred and holy to her as the tinny bells of the little church on Sunday. It was his laughter she had fallen in love with. Now, they seemed to share only a tear and a sigh, or a weary glance in passing... yet, the children still laughed, and played, and had full bellies, and were healthy...

 

    Resignedly, the man she had fallen in love with slipped beneath the covers and joined her, wrapping her in a gentle and somehow timid embrace. She could feel in his entire form a sense of loss, of failure, and of resignation. It chilled her, in spite of his warmth. Yet then, she lifted his hand from her side to embrace it, feeling the calluses and cuts, the heavy lines that had recently begun to mar his skin all over. Tired and old, ravaged by the world- this is what they were becoming now, so quickly it made her head spin when she thought of how it seemed not a year had passed since she felt so young, and in love, and free.

 

    Ah, the world did not feel new any more, but suddenly she felt a glow rise up within her, as she held his hand, reverently, a few inches above her heart, which now danced with rhythm. The best part was, she also knew that he felt this too, this warmth and this comfort- every time their hands or their bodies met- still. "I do not feel young or free any longer," she thought to herself, "but I do still feel loved, because I am." Smiling, wishing to remind him as she had just reminded herself, she whispered into his ear, "Darling, we are the lucky ones."

 

    There was not a moment of hesitation before he kissed her, deeply and in that same old longing way, pulling her tight against his chest. Then, the resounding of that beautiful laughter she so missed... Ah, it was music when he said (in a burst within his hearty laughter), "Yes, love, we certainly are!"

 

 

Reviews

[Hannah!]

I loved this. It was beautiful, from the first word on. I love the ending. It sort of turns the whole story around--it ties it all together perfectly. The only suggestion I have is a small one: it's a bit confusing that the main character's thoughts and words are in quotation marks; it might be better to have the thoughts in italics. But that's really just me being nitpicky. This story was absolutely lovely.

[Ujjwal Ankur]

This was beautiful, very intricately described.
Loved it, totally.