DAY 20: Scrivener's Pen

All I did was kill my wife with a stroke of my scrivener’s pen.

My world used to be full of sunshine and hope. The skies were always flushed with colors and sweet promises of better days. But right now? I’m sorry I sound like a cliché those times are as lost as sand castles washed off by incoming breakers. Someone once asked me, if you had to choose between yesterday and tomorrow, which you would you pick and why? Back then, I didn’t really know what to choose, I may have picked tomorrow because I had dreams of better days with Iris. But, you know all it takes is a little trauma to get you decided. And then, you’re forced to make some really nasty decisions in a split second.

How did I arrive at this place of misery? As they say, it’s a trifle long story. Actually, it’s close to three or four or five maybe, six more pages of the journal you hold in your hands.

Iris cashed in her chips on Tuesday, August 5th, 2009. She used to be my woman. Lawfully wedded wifey and all that jazz. You dig my gist thus far, do you not? I suppose a little backstory about how I met Iris would be in order, do you think?

It was pouring that beautiful Saturday evening down here in Cornrow. I was caught hands down without my umbrella and so I chose to stand under the awning of a local beauty shop, Deborah’s Drawer or Locker now that I think about it, it might have been Deborah’s Cabinet or probably, Wardrobe. I may not be right on top of it. I’m at sea when it concerns women stuff. You could point me right at a woman and tell me what she got on her head is braids. And the next moment if you asked me I might say waves or brakes or even cakes. I kind of love the one they call Alicia Keyes, though. Nice work naming the hairstyles after my favorite female artist.

She must have been in there for a while, because I never saw her go in. And I wasn’t aware I was blocking the entrance until she rammed the steel handle into my spine trying to get out of the shop. Damn, how fast the heat returned to my body in that cold weather. It hurt like a broken heart.

I grunted and went sprawling on the asphalt of the parking lot. Iris dumped her bags (she had quite a few on her) and rushed to my side. (That was probably one of the few times a lady got rid of her handbag for a guy.)

            “Sorry mister. I didn’t see you standing there. Are you hurt?”

            “I don’t think so. But I’ll never know for sure unless you’d step aside so I can pick myself up and check.”

Iris smiled. It was her killer smile; she had a way of curving her lips around the edges so it lit up her entire face like ten thousand suns were shining through her skin. Our relationship was kindled by the warmth of that smile. Plus, we happened to be running down the same alley as careers went-the business of the imagination. What are the odds against that?

I never believed in fickle things as love at first sight. Had I been one prone to roam such territories maybe, I would have labeled my encounter with Iris by such a triviality. Cause we sort of melded immediately. It was like we’ve been acquainted for a while and just stumbled on each other again or like something invented through subconscious association, like we’ve always been waiting to meet each other. Like the reaction of salt and water. I wasn’t thinking along the lines of a future wife, just yet. I just felt that . . . that . . . what do you call it? . . . bonding. Yeah, it’s true that love is a mystery to everyone, except the poets.

Like I said, I’ve never had room for a love at first sight. I’ve always believed that love is patient. For me, that meant love takes its time and takes time. Love allows for recognition and fellowship. With love, there’s that pervasive sense of companionship that could only be honed as time does its work. And then, love makes itself known.

Notes to myself:

I’ve established something of a fantastical relationship between these two writers. Now, all I need do is work in the tragedy; how did Iris cash in her chips? Die, in other words?

Did the author really stab her to death with his pen or are his words allegorical?

Who (if the writer didn’t do it) killed his wife?