LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 5

      I’m taking a break from the window today. It doesn’t do an old woman any good to completely absorb herself in another life. My own days may not be exciting anymore, the sparkle of youth long gone, but I need to live them as best I can. I need to get up, move around, do things. I have no choice.

      Well, I suppose there is always a choice. But right now, I think the only choice I can reasonably make is to keep pushing through, like I’ve done for so many years.

      I decide, with a sigh, to do some cleaning today. The house isn’t very dirty, it’s true. When you live alone, there aren’t any people to pick up after, many dishes to wash, many beds to make, or much dirt to clean. There are no lawn clippings tracked in on his shoes to swipe up or coffee cups scattered about to tend to. Life alone is decidedly less messy, although I’m no longer certain that’s something to be happy about. In my younger days, I hated cleaning. I would yell at him for leaving his socks around, for leaving dirty plates on the end table. I was frustrated to no end that no matter what I did, the house was never clean.

      Now, the house is too clean. Other than the dusky smell from age and time passing, other than the stale air from the doors and windows being shut, it’s pretty much the same as it’s been for years. Not a picture is moved, not a new decorative display has been added. What’s the point? In many ways, this draughty house is a mausoleum for the past, so little having been changed in so many decades.

      Still, I feel like I need to do something that seems productive even if it really isn’t. I have nervous energy building, and I need to burn it somehow. I want to get rid of it before it builds up anymore.

      I stumble towards the cleaning closet and stoop to get the duster. My back aches as I lean down, but I try to ignore it.

      Amos meows at my feet as I head towards the living room, ready to crack every piece of dust there is, ready to swipe it all away.

      Twenty minutes later, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve managed to dust all the pictures and shelves on the left half of the room. I’m huffing a little, out of breath from the stretching and bending. It’s pathetic.

      I take a seat, duster in hand, frustrated with myself. I can’t even do things I hate, like cleaning. There’s so little left I can do, even when I’m feeling up to it.

      I sit, staring at the broken photograph that still lies flat on the mantel. I don’t need to look at it to know the curve of my lips, the lines of his stance. It’s seared into my memory like a scorching flame.

      I think about all the times we fought in this room – about dusting, about him pulling his weight, about all sorts of decisions. I think about his eye rolls that would infuriate me, all the times he tried to tell me to calm down. Sometimes, I savoured the chance to get to him, to push his buttons. Such is marriage, I suppose – annoying each other, getting angry. It’s not all perfect, you know.

      In the middle of my dusting depression, there’s a knock at the door. For a moment, I think maybe I’m hearing things; it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Amos jumped on the counter or maybe something fell. But no, there’s another gentle rap, rap, rap, and it’s clearly coming from the front door.

      Energised by the possibility of a visitor, which rarely happens, I pick myself up from the couch, tossing the duster to the floor. I’ll retrieve it later.

      ‘Coming,’ I yell in a voice hoarse from age and time. I mindlessly fluff my hair and try to smooth my shirt. I will my feet to shuffle faster.

      In my youth, I used to be afraid to open the door, afraid a serial killer or a burglar would try to weasel his way in. I always made my husband go. In the past couple years, though, I’ve realised two things.

      First, there’s no one else to answer the door now.

      And second, at my age, who cares if it is a burglar or a serial killer? Maybe it would make things interesting. That’s the one good thing about getting old – fear wanes a bit because really, what is there to fear? Death? It’s knocking on my door anyway.

      Not literally, though. Because when I open the door, I smile.

      It’s her: Jane from 312 Bristol Lane.

      ‘Hi there, can I come in?’ she asks. She’s got a delicate scarf wrapped around her neck to keep out the biting chill of the autumn air.

      ‘Of course. I was just doing some pesky housework.’ I extend my hand towards the interior of the house, ushering her in from the brisk air. I’m surprised she’s here, but also excited to have some company. You don’t always realise how lonely you’ve been until the chance to talk to another person arises. I’ve never been one to complain when someone interrupted my cleaning. The rest of the dusting can wait for another day.

      She steps over the threshold, getting ready to kick off her shoes on the rug inside the doorway that masks the hardwood, protecting it from what, I don’t know. ‘You don’t have to take them off, really. It’s fine. Come in. Can I get you some tea?’

      ‘Tea would be lovely. If you show me where it is, I can make it.’

      I want to say no and be a good host. I want to tell her it isn’t a bother, that I can make her tea. But my hands are aching from all the damn dusting, and I’m out of breath. So I smile and nod, leading her slowly to the kitchen.

      Amos meows, rubbing Jane’s legs as she makes a fuss over him.

      ‘You like cats?’ I ask.

      ‘Love them. I’ve always wanted one, but my husband’s allergic.’

      I give a sympathetic nod as I point her towards the tea cupboard. ‘Everything is in there, dear, and the kettle is on the stove.’

      I pull out a chair and have a seat, feeling like a lump on a log sitting here while company makes tea in my own house. Watching her move gracefully, though, her long, slender body stretching to reach the tea and then to fill the kettle with water in the sink, I smile. It feels good to have someone here to care for me, even if it is just a cup of tea. I can’t remember the last time someone ventured in and spent some time with me. It’s been years and years. Who would come to visit, after all? That’s a terribly sad thought, I realise, and decide not to think about it. Instead, I choose to focus on the beauty of the fact I finally do have someone to visit with me and to make me tea. It’s really a lovely thing.

      I study her, realising that the stoic stare the other day must have been in my imagination. How foolish I was to think she was anything but kind and sweet. She’s lovely, inside and out. Looking at her in my kitchen, I can’t imagine anything but warmth radiating from her.

      I shake my head, telling myself I need to get it together. It wouldn’t do to lose my mind at this stage of the game.

      She picks out two teabags.

      ‘Put them in after. You put the teabag in after,’ I say when she tries to put it in the cup first.

      She turns to look at me, wordlessly setting down the teabag.

      I breathe a sigh of relief. No use messing with routine now.

      ‘It’s lovely of you to stop by,’ I say once she’s got the kettle on and has a seat across from me.

      She smiles. ‘Sorry it’s been so long. You know how it is. Busy and all that,’ she says, waving her hand.

      I nod and smile, not wanting to ruin the moment by telling her I have no clue what she’s

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