Free to Write

He stumbles over the doorway and catches himself, right hand splayed just inside the hallway. His body follows the same trajectory, but with an increased force from the weight of his being, and in reality, the weight of his whole damned week. His shoulder smashes solidly against the old horsehair plaster. With a final gawkish thump, his right hip joins and stops the wall from coming any closer. While taking a moment to gather his senses, he lifts his head to meet the antique golden oval frame hung just at eye level. Momentarily the fog of the night begins to lift, and brings with it his head. Blurry eyed, he is faced with a photo of his late wife, Beatrice.

"We really have to stop meeting like this," he says with a slight slur to his s's and a brief snort of exasperated humor at his current state. Leaning his head against the wall next to the face that belongs to the one woman he'd give anything to see again, or give just as much to be able to forget, he raises his hand and with a softly, outstretched index finger traces the outline of the frame, and then the outline of her lips. He closes his eyes, slides down the wall, and slumps to the floor.