Sorrow – Bruce Meyer

Their lives together had been difficult – he standing in the sliver of light between the pulled drapes of a hotel room while Sadie or Sally or Sonia lay on the spreaded bed with her torso propped on one arm and one foot still touching the floor with a motion picture pose of seductivenesss that would have satisfied the Hayes Act yet was erotic enough to suggest a foretaste of pleasures to come as he set his shirt over the back of a chair and smiled then snarled to imitate a hungry beast as the secretary unclipped her bra letting the straps fall down from her shoulders around her pale upper arms while at home, she, the dutiful housewife, sat on the edge of their bed in their almost antiseptic bedroom with crinoline poodles on the dresser and a mirror turned face down in its tray and wept and stared at the pale blue crucifix nailed to the wall above their curled white French Provincial double bed that was out of fashion the day they bought it and said to herself  “we are done for good now,” and realized her entire married life had been a foreshadowing of the hospital room with its robin’s egg blue walls masked by the limp cotton drapes running sadly on their track and falling as tears fall from the weeping angels with blows not intending to hit anything but the heart or land anywhere but just to fall short of feeling real because she could not control the nurses’ voices on the floor’s address system and stop them from announcing a code blue for someone she had long wished to be dead, and closed her eyes, deciding it was not over now and no one could find the love she thought she had known as the afternoon sun slipped behind the darkness of the hospital annex wing, where whatever love she thought remained inside her heart was nowhere to be found and asked nothing more of her to cry for and offered her not a shred of pity or remorse as it called forth called a darkness that wrapped its veil around her and whispered in her ear that she had had enough as the sky she could barely see beyond where the other wing faded from blue to black which is the colour of sorrow when nothing but emptiness remains to cry for.

Bruce MeyerBruce Meyer is author of more than sixty books of poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and non-fiction. His stories have won or been shortlisted for numerous international prizes. He lives in Barrie, Ontario.