A Time to Speak. – A Fiction Short Story by Rose Lind

Trigger warning:

Sexual references and relationship gaslighting.

Swearing.

Biblical and Hindu Religious texts.

Part I: Sun in the 8th House

Some paths lead to nowhere—or perhaps, if you want them to, they are all just transformations.

Friends tried to warn her, but I stayed out of it. I was never really sure of her real name, but for the sake of the telling, let's call her Shelley. So be my guest as I swamp you with a whole sea of similes to justify her name: She has those light, sea-coloured eyes—the kind of blue that sparkles like Ceylon sapphires—and hair like strips of beach sand: yellow, white, and, when damp, a tinge of brown. And get this: a throat like a kite demanding the afternoon wind just to laugh; her body, a decompressing wave always ready to forgive.

Then there's him. Personally, I shy away from the sort of lover Shelley longed for, but Jack—not his real name either—was the walking cliché: tall, dark, and handsome. The type who’d throw around phrases like "easy come, easy go" or "you only live once"—artful little dodges to avoid anything real and mundane.

To give you the quick overview—before I slow things down with a bit of dialogue:

His first wander led Jack to press against Shelley and kiss her in a room with bright, sunny yellow walls.

His second wander found them out on the hard cement footpath. He gave her a pathetic, sloppy kiss—the sort that carves out distance, mirroring the autumn chill pulling at her baby-blue cardigan.

And then his final wander, just before he left: no kiss this time, he just touched her bare lips—lips she’d forgotten to colour. Around them, the world willingly rushed blindly past, oblivious to the quiet compression of her heart breaking.

"Where are you going?" Shelley asked, catching the back of his jacket.

Jack growled, "This isn't our arrangement!"

Shelley persisted, her knuckles white as she firmly dragged him back. "Where are you going?"

Angered, Jack swung around. "Nowhere I haven't been before."

Clutching the twisted fabric, her snarled anger turned to a child's helpless whine: "I can't keep doing this!"

He yanked his jacket free. "Doing what?"

A single tear fell. "Waiting for you."

"Then don't!" Jack barked, storming off. The rest of his shouting was swallowed whole by car horns and passing traffic.

— Do you know, I’ve just finished reading the Dhammapada? Well, I think I'll tell the reader. What do you think? —

So Shelley's heart sank, leaving a hollow vacuum rattled by heavy, whistling winds.

— I think here I can show how she anchored to him by a craving born of anger which she experiences as grief, that destroys her beauty. —

Deep creases appeared and carved into her forehead. And as her justified hatred intensified, it offered her no escape—not even in sleep.

— So you know she will age and all that. Too much stress and the ilk. —

Part II: He's Back

His yellow returned.

Shelley snuggled against Jack's chest and read aloud to him—though perhaps it was more to herself: "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven..."

"Oh, this is such a drawl of a thing," Jack groaned, as if he'd heard it a hundred times before.

With one eye opened wide, Shelley ignored him and continued. "...a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance."

"Oh, a time to dance." Jack rolled off the bed and wrapped a towel around his hips. "Time to take a shower," he mocked.

Shelley raised her voice over the squeak of the taps turning on: "...a time to keep silence, and a time to speak."

Then, entirely out of her control, the leaves coloured to autumn and turned, slowly drop-drop-dropping to the earth.

Shelley chewed the end of a pencil, studying her calendar as her thoughts twitched. "When are you going?"

"Soon, I guess," Jack enunciated.

She gave a small nod, as if she already knew the answer. "Things are cyclic for you, right?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "You expect too much!"

Then he snuck out into a pitch-black night, with his usual no-kiss goodbye. Buried deep beneath the doona, Shelley wept, her stomach aching. How would she cope for the next few months?

— Bloody hell! I know she will cope! BECAUSE he's gone —

Part III: The Harbinger

His yellow returned.

Shelley was older now—her sunken eyes reflected a distant, ending star system, and her hair, as the French say politely, was winter. To her, Jack's lips felt like bones. Her blue sweater felt like a harbinger, intruding on her thoughts, while his shallow "Love you" sounded brittle and rigid.

Eyes fixed on his suitcases by the door, she braced herself. "I'll have to pull my heavy knits out."

Controlling her body, she folded her arms, certain he would take the cue. But still, she jolted inside as he threw the front door open. Cold air rushed over her. She swallowed hard. "I guess it's goodbye again?"

"Yep, off to Europe—the usual," Jack said frostily.

Shelley squinted, knowing. "See you soon, then?"

Astounded, he froze. "Huh?" Then his confidence rushed back, pulling a pretend pout. "Oh, you're not going to cry again?" He leaned in to peck her forehead.

She jerked back, waving her hands low. "No thanks!"

Straightening his neck like a rooster, Jack grabbed a suitcase in each hand and strutted down the path, swaying with a flicker of confusion. Peeking through the crack of the door, part of Shelley felt a quiet satisfaction (and so did the writer), while the rest of her just wanted to shut him out forever.

Barefoot, Jack passed beneath the gum trees and glanced back. Shaking his head, he pushed past the tilted birdbath and paused at the pruned roses, as a vicious howl of wind billowed his jacket wide open, alarming his body clock to pick up the pace. Frustrated and dishevelled, he dumped the suitcases down, hurriedly unlatched the gate, then buttoned up ready as a secret mist swirled in, leaving only the gold, bare horizon to turn dark.

"He's gone," Shelley whispered.

The front door lock turned—drop-drop-dropping to click shut so slowly it felt like a nightmare only Australia could write.

Shelley quipped, "See you later, alligator."

Outside, stray spits turned into rain, washing the glass clean. With a deep breath, she pulled the blinds and spoke a soft mantra to the empty room: "I am stronger. I have learned to let go."

She retreated to her bedroom, locking that door too. The space was her own yellow—warm from candlelight. Settling into her armchair, she undid her blue cardigan buttons, stretched her legs, and pulled a heavy blanket over her lap. On the table, a glass of wine glowed red-gold with floating dried herbs.

She raised it high in a toast: "Especially in Winter, shall goodness and mercy follow me all the days of my life."

Her cat, Springer, crawled into her lap, eyeing the savoury biscuits and cream cheese.

"Meow."

"Want to be part of the communion, huh?"

Springer shuffled closer. "Meow."

"Here you go- follow me and Springer all the days of our lives." Shelley broke off a piece of biscuit.

Springer frantically licked at it, fighting falling blobby crumbs. "Almost," Shelley whispered as cheese melted and clumped in the hair around the cat's gyrating jaws.

Swerving her book away from the slobber, Shelley opened it at a safe distance and read aloud: "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven..."

"Meow."

"You like my reading?"

"Meow."

Nodding, she leaned into her performative voice: "...a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep, and a time to laugh..."

Springer bumped her head hard against Shelley's hand.

"Oh, pussycat wants a pat." Dodging the spit, she patted the cat's head with a single finger.

"Meow." Springer purred and kneaded heavily on the blanket.

From his hum, Shelley relaxed to continue: "...a time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to keep silence, and a time to speak."

Part IV: My Father's Daughter

"Can I see your writing?" Dad asks, his familiar voice making my blood and bones smile.

I reach into my anorak pocket, sudden anxiety tightening my chest. I dig deep, searching for the folded paper to show another writer. "I had it right here..."

He waits, as if he has all the time in the world.

For some reason, I turn formal: "It’s foolish. If it were there, I’d have felt it the moment my hand went in."

"It's okay," he says gently. "How have you been?"

"Good. Busy." I dig into my other pocket—nothing. Rummaging frantically, I add, "I did write it down. I'm sorry, I can’t find my notes."

I drift deeper into sleep. He touches my shoulder, and I stir.

"Can you write it again, please?" he asks.

I mumble, turning in the covers as he begins to go. I say, "Wait,"

A heavy perplexity settles over me. "I know I wrote about Shelley. I know I called him Jack."

Holding his head straight above me, he gazes down as if reading my mind. "Ah...I like the idea. So Jack is the sun, and Shelley is the Southern Hemisphere?" He nods, "And I'm sure your Nana will like it too!"

My eyes snap open.

Half-asleep, my hands sweep the blankets, searching the mattress for the pages I wrote the second time. Instead, my fingers hit the cold, flat surface of my phone.

It is 2:03 am.

In the dark, I whisper, "I miss you, Dad. Thanks for the chat. Om Dhum Dhumavatiye Namaha."

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