After the function

February 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

There is never enough time for anything nice any more, she is thinking.

She is hurrying towards her car, aware of the tower blocks looming to either side of the road and the menace that might lurk in the shadows, but, more than that, aware of the rain driving at her, flattening her hair.

She doesn’t know why she bothers sometimes.

She was at a work event this evening, all the local businesspeople gathered together, and for once she felt like part of something, like someone might ask for her business card or mistake her for someone who ran a company. That was why she did her hair, even though she was only handing out name badges. Even put on some makeup. Well, you’ve got to, haven’t you? Those other women are always so glamorous.

And now she’s hurrying back to pick up the boy from his grandparents. She doesn’t like asking them. She knows what they think about her working, but he’s nine now, and honestly, if she didn’t get out of that house she’d go mad.

She can’t relate to him at all. She doesn’t think that she hides it very well, that she’d rather have had a girl. I mean, what does she know about boys? He only ever wants to talk about bums and boobs – I mean, really. She doesn’t want to talk about that.

She’s at the car now, fumbling for the keys and sliding into the driver’s seat. Hates this car. Hates driving it, it’s so big. Hates everything right now, including her hair all limp and disappointing in the rear view mirror, so that her husband will barely glance at her; will barely feel the cheek his lips absently graze as he turns his face back to the television.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading After the function at Clare Daněk.


%d bloggers like this: