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    Cold Mornings


    It was a beautiful morning, like every morning here in the countryside, a low swirling fog covered the grassy hills and dark green forests. The sky was a pale blue-gray wash over a clean white canvas; distant hints of orange kissed the horizon inspiring color into the scene. I was sleeping soundly in my warm feather filled nest of a bed when the light melted in through the tall window across from me and brushed my cheek. Rolling over I expected to find my beautiful lover lying next to me as any newlywed would. Alas, I found myself alone with only the faint imprint of where her fragile frame had rested for so many nights. Gone yet again, I gave the empty space a heavy sigh before scratching my head and rolling out of the mountain of blankets resting on top of me.

    The friendly sea foam blue walls greeted me with a soft “Good morning”, as did the warming dark wood floors under my bare feet. Making my way across the room I glanced over at Alah’s closet, the one I had built for her when we agreed to live together, naturally it was empty save for the ghost of her perfume still wafting through the air. I reached in and turned on the light that filled the clothing coated room with a soft pale glow. Everything seemed in its rightful place and untouched as I scanned the room for any clues that might be residing in her clothing on the floor or in the ceiling. My eyes fell upon her beauty table, a gold leafed monstrosity her mother purchased for her on our wedding day, which sat disappointingly in the far corner blemished by random containers of make-up strewn carelessly across its surface. She must have been up for a while.

    After searching many rooms in our small house I found her in the dining room. The one place I should have checked first. She was sitting at a small bar top that faced a large window looking out to the forest that framed most of our property. She had her back to me as usual, I knew that back too well, beautiful as always with her long black hair pulled up and pinned with a fancily adorned chopstick. I could see the soft rise and fall of her shoulders peeking out from the low hanging fold of the red Kimono she had loosely wrapped herself in. It was a beautiful piece I had purchased for her in Japan one warm summer evening on the last day of a short holiday; I presented it to her on her birthday. I received a scolding rather than a “Thank you”, because it apparently clashed with Alah’s rusty brown hair she had at the time before she died it.
    I loved that Kimono more than I loved most things in this world with its ghostly gold and fiery red floral pattern, and an elaborately embroidered story of two lovers meeting for the first time sewn across the back. It broke my heart to see how beautiful it was on her and not being the one she wore it for. Alah was slowly turning into a woman I had never imagined I’d meet in this life time. Her hair was stained a haunting raven black against her now cold ivory skin. I question every day what happened to her bright coppery hair and warm comforting soft complexion. I can only assume that it died years ago along with the love she once had for me.
    I lowered my eyes and drifted into the kitchen like the ghost I had become careful not to make any noise. My silence had nearly been successful until I reached for a slick white mug and it let out a horrible clink against the plate under it. I flinched, her head moved only an inch in my direction.

    “You’re finally awake,” her smooth voice leached through the calm cool morning air, “I thought you would never wake up Saucha. I had time to get dressed and everything,” I placed the cup on the kitchen counter near an empty coffee pot biting my lip. If you don’t want me then say so. I know what you do. I know who they are. Why don’t you just tell me so I can stop hurting.
    With a long pause I shifted my eyes to a small clock on the kitchen wall right above an old fashioned stove she insisted on keeping. The hands rested on 6 o’clock, just as I suspected, the day hadn’t even started to begin yet. I stared back down at my empty mug and calculated what I would say next to her remark. I lifted my gaze to the back of her head before responding, “Darling,” it was a choked start but I took a deep breath to sustain my usual docile tone, “It’s only Six in the morning. The day hasn’t started yet.”

    Though my voice was full of optimism and obedience my face stayed unemotional with a piercing glare I couldn’t control. The soft rustling of her uncertain shifting indicated that I had broken through somehow. Her shoulders twitched uncomfortably and her head shifted only a centimeter this time in an attempted turn.

    “I see,” she finally replied, her voice sounding hesitant and slightly disturbed. My glare melted to the floor as I looked away and back at the empty mug and abandoned coffee pot.
    The kitchen was not as friendly as the bedroom or hallways of this house. It always had a cold and unforgiving aura. It always came as a surprise to me knowing that this was her room of choice when it came to a sanctuary. When her transformation was in its beginning stages I used to blame the kitchen and the small breakfast nook for tainting her once pure demeanor. It was always dark here, no matter how many lights or how many windows I installed the kitchen remained gray and judgmental somehow. As if it was waiting for a reason to make everything fall apart right in front of you. At night it would muster up a mask of warmth even if it were only for a small portion of time. It would try, the lights would reflect off the tile, metal, and porcelain. Fill all the little corners and crannies with its brilliance, but the kitchen’s true face would still loom over my shoulder as I cooked and entertained guests. The kitchen and I were simply just not made for each other.

    “Would you like some tea?” I heard myself obediently utter as I turned away from my post deciding that tea would be a much better option rather than coffee. I was looking down at the floor when she suddenly turned on her seat to stare at me. I had a sense, more like instinct rather, to cower slightly at her emotionless eyes boring into me. She was looking for something but still had not yet understood what she was looking for. I could only hope that she would abandon her search and look away.

    “What did you say?” her cold hiss cutting through the room. I looked up holding the kettle in one hand and reaching out to the sink with the other, my face as cold as her’s.

    “I asked you, if you would enjoy some tea. It’s a cold morning,” my face morphed into its usual happy grin as a response to her almost offended tone. Our eyes locked, or more appropriately collided, with each other both fighting for the upper hand. Her lip twitched signaling a scowl under the surface of her smooth face. My expression stayed serene and calm obviously more well trained than her’s that constantly fought with itself. Her disgust for me was writhing with in her I could see it. See it in her eyes, in her posture, the way her hand shook as it gripped the back of the chair. Why do you hate me so much Alah? I remember so vividly how you used to say you loved me with all your heart. How you kissed me under the moonlit sky and crisp morning fog. Why have you decided to change so dramatically? Or is it because you want me to change too? What has he given you that I have not? There were so many voices and questions in my mind whenever I looked at her that it made me dizzy. As for the current situation I could only wait for her to leave for the day and give me peace and time to think to myself. Decisions needed to be made, but image was always a problem that I needed to consider. Both of us had a reputation to uphold, family to please, and friends to out shine.
    The situation always went back to, am I willing to sacrifice everything I had gained just to make me feel better?