Richard and Mary

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Older man that suffers from anxiety and his wife who craves adventure

Submitted: April 25, 2014

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Submitted: April 25, 2014

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People. People all around. Talking of their latest news with such ease.  One single man walks in envy of them as he passes about like a piece of garbage in the wind. He simply loathes going to out on what Mary calls “date-nights”. She claims they haven’t “spice” in their relationship, and yet he can’t help but disagree. Though he will admit, there could be a bit more noticeable affection toward her. Couldn’t she understand the utter relaxation that sweeps over him in coming home? A comfortable home, which held a small smell of cinnamon in the air that even the least sensitive of noses could detect. Still, it was Mary who had always pulled him away from what could be compared to the gate way of hell. She had made the constant buzzing voices of hundreds fade away with her mere presence. Though Richard would never voice this aloud in fear Mary may preach it to the world and result in him becoming a laughing stock of the town. As if his awkward, tense stance and wide eyes in public don’t already crown him the title.

“Looks like he went and shit himself!” a few young adults whisper amongst themselves, not even attempting to avoid coming off as disrespectful or impolite. Mary runs her hand up and down Richard’s right arm, which she has been hugging long since leaving their plain little cottage, and gives it a little pat before her hand remains sedentary once more. She was well aware of his many trivial fears, but couldn’t necessarily understand why he still acted like a young child having to publically speak when she begged him for a night in the town. At first, it was almost adorable, but she would never tell him that, in fear of him never being able to live it down. She loved her husband, and knew she would feel incomplete. Sure, the days compressed with all the new, spectacular activities, but she would eventually bore. After all, even erratic, impulsive lifestyles must get boring. Richard made sure to keep her grounded, but carefully living in clouds of what-ifs that she could delicately dig through and conclude for herself.

“Wh-what rotten kids, eh Mary? Think they’re humorous little fellow, don’t they?” Richard nervously chuckled. He raised his dormant left arm and wiped nonexistent sweat from his forehead –A nervous tick of his. He walked over to his truck. The truck his father had made with spare parts he bought off the mechanic when Richard was just a teenager. The truck that survived his driving lessons and years to come. Richard opened the passenger door for Mary and helped her climb in; he was hesitant to let go of her touch, which had never failed to deaden his jumpy nerves in public. Alas, the worst was to come. He closed the door, and wrapped his arms around himself to keep them still as he stepped his way around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, and wiggled himself inside, in turn moving the car side to side, before closing the door. He exhaled and pushed the key in and turned on the engine. It started with a sputtering growl and took him back to the first day of driving. He speculated that he never became any better. He still drove far too fast, stopped sudden and ridged, and cursed under his breath when entering traffic. His head turned to Mary, and she stared him back in the eye and gave a weak but always supportive smile. He didn’t smile back, to Mary’s disappointment, but still hoped she knew he did in fact love her. He loved her so much that it hurt to deny her anything –especially her constant need for adventure and nuance—even if he died a little on the inside.  


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