2/13/05

"Thou shalt not covet." I beg of thee a mind to disregard the aforementioned.

THE COVETING

Every so often, one may have feelings of despair and desire for the aspects of another, or coveting. You will not think me mad for experiencing this, then, and will perhaps understand my story. The level to which these emotions are taken, however, may vary, and therefore I beg of you an open mind in the further reading.

Nearly thirty blissful years have passed since she fell. I have never mourned the loss, yet only looked back on her demise as the greatest triumph ever made, and since the untimely death I have been nothing less than content.

But now, to properly begin the story...

It had been over two years since my marriage to Christopher Steffick. The wedding had been complete with ourselves, a pastor with a Bible (in which neither of us remotely believed), and a bouquet of beautiful carnations. During the week following the marriage, I remember having watched the flowers whither away to shriveled, darkened bits of what seemed like thin tissue paper.

Christopher was then an attractive man of twenty-three, only one year my elder. Well-read, humorous and beautiful as he was, I had managed to be so blessed as to have been graced with his love.

Shelves upon shelves of books lined half our bedroom walls, which were the color of slightly darkened cream. The shelves consisted of reference books (mostly those in the genre of philosophy, psychology, and other studies), dictionaries of several languages (including English, Spanish, and Russian), and various novels. The desk opposite the bed was the home to our favorite candles, pens, paper, and ancient sketches composed by the artist that once had resided in me. The bed itself was somewhat more rough and hard than I had hoped, though I felt that a night beside the man I loved would cure any discomfort, and his arms around me would wash away any pain. Unfortunately, I had spent several sleepless nights on the piece of furniture.

I awoke early one brisk October morning. Looking out the large window, whose curtains were drawn far to the sides, I could see the last leaf fall from the oak tree down to the color-speckled autumn lawn. The sun was rising, painting the sky across the road a pleasant shade of red-orange, matching the last fallen leaf. The branches and trunk of the oak formed a dark and mysterious silhouette in front of the bright sky. I then realized that the colder weather would be soon approaching, as was all too common in New England. I knew I was able to see every year what the majority of the country could only dream about: the autumn foliage of the forests. I was given the distinct privilege year after year to watch the earth die beautifully, be covered in white, sparkling dust in its burial, and rise again to be reborn each April. I felt such rapture in the seasons' beauty, but, sadly, the feeling did not last for long that day.

Yawning lightly, I gazed toward my husband. The bright sky behind him outside of the window illuminated his face. It added an orange shade to his light-complexioned face. I followed my view from his messy, black hair to his similarly colored eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyes blinked in his sleep, and I knew he would soon be awakening. I continued down his face, down the medium, slightly rounded nose, down to the soft pink lips, and to where the blanket came up to the base of his neck.

"Honey, wake up," I spoke in soft words, so as to only disturb him enough for waking.

He groaned and slowly opened his eyes. Christopher had always been a light sleeper. He closed his eyes again, and turned away.

"It's brighter on that side, ya know; you're facin' the window," I said, acknowledging that the only way to truly get him up was to keep talking until he was so bothered, he would no longer make an attempt at continuing to doze. "Let's go, ya have ta wake up."

Turning back to face me, he stated, "No, I'm still sleeping."

"How humorous you are in that state of semi-consciousness."

He pulled himself out of bed, almost involuntarily, as he had been doing so quite objectionably for some time. He slipped on some pants and walked to the bathroom. I put my sweatshirt on over my pajamas, and started toward the doorway. Walking down the hallway as I had done every day, I pondered what to eat for breakfast. In the kitchen, some muffins left from the market, some water. Christopher approached me from behind, wrapping his arms around me. "Mornin'."

"We need ta get more in this kitchen." I held out the only food in front of his face. "Muffin?" He contorted his face in a look of disgust upon sight of the object. "My point exactly."

"Ya know why I didn't wanna get up this morning?"

"You never wanna get up this early, any morning," I stated bluntly.

"Yeah, but today, I was havin' a dream of you…" He had the sly look on his face. I knew well of what he was thinking and did not wish to hear it.

"That's nice," I said, starting to stride away from his embrace. He pulled me back and began to speak of exactly the thing I least wished to hear at the moment, as was usually the case.

I could feel his body against mine as he spoke. "It was a really good dream." He smiled. He continued to talk. I pulled away, ignoring his words, and walked back to the bedroom to sit on the bed. Of course, he followed me. He sat beside me. As was not his usual action, he did not speak angrily toward me, but simply stared at the floor. I arose and walked toward the bathroom. I desired greatly a shower.

I stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom nude. Christopher stared at my naked body, half-smiling, as was customary for him to do. But I was startled, as I presumed he had retired to the kitchen while I was in the shower. I stepped back, grabbed a towel, wrapped myself in it, and proceeded forward. I dressed quickly, trying to avoid his penetrating stare. "We needa go ta the store," I said, in an attempt to change the subject not even mentioned by either of us.

"Guess so," he replied, suppressing his other feelings. "We'll walk."

Luckily for us, the store was less than a mile away, which was unusual because our closest neighbor was farther than that. We did not own the vast land between the houses, but rather the meager portion around our small ranch. I was glad Christopher had suggested walking, as I needed the exercise and the day was lovely. The trees were no longer the silhouettes they had been an hour previous, but were now pale brown contortions, beautiful like a rare originality. I could feel the leaves about my feet through my thin shoes, like walking through dry water. I heard the leaves whisper with each step.

We came to Bill's Groceries, and the familiar bell jingled as the door closed behind Christopher and me. Bill Mortley was at the register, as nearly always, with the pale, tired face of a caffeine-addict who had not yet drunk his morning coffee. Despite his exhaustion, he smiled a warming smile that lit up his gray eyes. Every line on his elderly face moved up a half inch with his kind expression. "How are ya folks today?"

"Good," said Christopher.

"It's quite nice outside, Bill. Walked here," I said. I picked up a handled basket and began walking.

We perused the shelves of various boxed pastas and loaves of bread. The fruit and vegetable cases next. Lastly, the dairy and egg section. With spaghetti, wheat bread, cheese, eggs, apples, and broccoli, we made our way toward the register. I began to place the food on the counter. Looking into the basket, I had not realized that it was no longer Bill behind the counter. I only discovered this upon hearing the voice, a female voice.

"How are you both today?" asked a light, pretty voice from behind the register. Looking up, I saw that the voice matched the person who spoke. A woman about twenty stood looking innocently at us, waiting for a reply to her question.

"Fine," I said shortly. She smiled slightly with her pink lips, illuminating her bright, pleased blue eyes. Her long, strawberry blonde hair bounced as she took hold of each item and proceeded to ring it up. She was staring intently at Christopher. Her face became more relaxed, more pleased as she gazed. She did not cease the action until she dropped the box of spaghetti at which she had then realized she was not looking.

Just then Mr. Mortley arrived from the stock room, approaching us. "Oh, I see you've met my granddaughter, Kaytlin. Came over from Milton yesterday ta live with her father. Firs' time here. Heard somethin' drop and figgered I'd come and see what it was." He looked toward the source of the sound. "Only spaghetti? Oh good, hasn't really screwed up then, has she?" Then he laughed. That laugh normally would have made me laugh as well, as I enjoyed the happiness of others, especially Bill, who did not seem to notice he was nearing eighty. Today, however, things were different. I could not laugh. I found myself unable even to wear a fake smile for his sake.

I saw Kaytlin smiling again, her eyes averting those of her grandfather, and rather focused on those of my husband. "Do ya have that rung up yet?" I asked her impatiently. Quickly noticing what she was doing, she deflected her view from Christopher to me.

"Yeah, jus' totaling it up," she replied half-heartedly, and smiling too widely with a superfluous happiness that one would not feel while ringing up groceries. That angered me.

I was immensely relieved when we left the market. Despite the now cold air, I could feel my insides boiling. "Guess we'll be seeing her around often, then, huh?" said Christopher.

I groaned shortly and continued to walk, carrying two bags of groceries, while Christopher held the other two. "The temperature's dropping," I informed him, with a hope that he would increase pace. The trees stood rigid and contorted. The leaves crackled as we walked through them. The noise quickly became monotonous and irritating.

We returned home, and I put the groceries in their proper compartments in the kitchen, leaving the eggs, cheese, and bread out, as it was nearly nine o'clock and I hadn't eaten since noon of the previous day. I removed a frying pan from the bottom drawer, and heated up the stove. "Do you want some breakfast?" I inquired of my husband.

"Sure," he replied, sitting in the sofa and picking up a Dostoevsky novel.