The Racquet

I stood there with my hands on the wall. I had nothing to do. There was no-one home. I went over to the clock. 8:45PM. She was late. I hovered in front of the clock absentmindedly watching it tick away the seconds. I slowly peeled my eyes from its yellow face and came out of the bedroom. Into the den. Everything was still. I liked it when the house was like this, calm and silent. I could think clearly. As though it could tap into my brain and read my thoughts, the compressor in the fridge kicked in. The steady hum I despised floated up the stairs. I moved into the small music room on the other side of the den. It had a window looking out the northern face of the house. The gentle breeze drowned out the rugged drone of the compressor to some extent. I heard the gate open and the car come in. It was a new car. I had not seen it yet. She had mentioned something about it the previous morning while on the phone with a friend. I went back into the bedroom to wait for her. I could hear her moving around downstairs quite clearly now that the compressor had cut-off. She had dropped her keys on the table with a clatter and was rummaging in the kitchen for something to eat. I went over to the mirror but not to look at myself. She used this mirror every morning. She looked into it and combed her luxurious black hair. I looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of the whole room. It always mesmerised me. I heard her footsteps come up the stairs. She always dragged her feet when she came home in the evening, weary from work. She switched the television on and watched the headlines before turning it off again. There was a soft click as she docked her iPod onto the stereo. She came to the bedroom door. I could not see her yet but her odour reached me. That sweet smell of sweat mingled with deodorant and car perfume. She shuffled into the room with her brown leather handbag and a white plastic bag in one hand and a slab of dark Swiss chocolate in the other. She dropped everything on the bed. She opened the plastic bag and pulled out a tennis racquet. She hung it on the wall next to the mirror and walked to the closet. She picked two towels and went into the bathroom. She was in there five minutes. Maybe an hour. She came out towelling her hair dry. She went over to her study table and picked up the novel she was reading and went into the den with the slab of chocolate. She must have eaten out today. A slow song was playing. I followed her out of the bedroom. She sat down in her favourite armchair and opened her book, slowly peeling the wrapper off the chocolate. I lingered behind her, hunger starting to gnaw slowly at my insides. The heat from the bath radiated from her body and her hair was fragrant from a new shampoo. I liked watching her read. Her brown eyes as they darted from word to word. Line to line. She did not read long. I watched as her tired eyes started to droop. I was ravenous now. She stifled a yawn with her book and stretched. Slowly getting up, she switched off the stereo and made her way back to the bedroom extinguishing the lights on the way. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden darkness, I saw her standing there at the bedroom door, bathed in moonlight. She switched on the lights in the bedroom. I quickly followed her in before she could close the door behind her. She went over to the dresser and quickly brushed her hair. All the while I was behind her watching, mesmerised. She stood up and turned around. That was when she noticed me. I looked into her almond eyes. They had changed. The soft eyes now bore despise. “You” she spat. A deafening crack and a blinding flash. I woke up on the floor. My vision was slightly blurred at the edges. I could not move. I could not turn my head. The blur was spreading toward the centre. That was when I noticed it. The tennis racquet. Hanging on the wall next to the mirror. Red with a black handle. Its mesh sinisterly metallic in the moonlight.