Weary Memory, Part 2

The old door creaks as the man enters a small one room house. The interior of the house is in disarray. Wooden beads are scattered about the cracking hardwood floor. On the woodstove is a broken teapot. Homemade mugs are piled on the counter next to it. Next to the bed is a vase filled with wilted flowers.

The man is carrying a bouquet and wearing a wrinkled worn suit that has seen better day and probably hasn't been worn in years. On the bed is sitting a woman wearing an old evening gown full of classic beauty. Her face is calm and serene.

Her eyes light up when they meet his. He ignores her and walks to the kitchen table. Without turning to look at her, he stammers softly "I - I thought you were gone."

"Not just yet" She smiles like a mother sweetly reproaching her child.

He turns toward her in repressed anger. "Why not? Why do you have to make this so hard? Why do you torture me and hate me so? Our story has been about nothing but hatred."

"Our story is about love"

"What do you know about love?" He steps toward her, passion welling up within him.

She frowns in disappointment. He still hasn't learned. He continues to advance and grow in intensity.

"Tell me, where was the love? Show me!"

He walks across the room to where the wooden beads are skewed on the floor by the bed. He gets on his knees and picks up a handful of beads and grabs the small wooden cross and string that had slid under the bed. He speaks with speed and conviction. "Was it here? Was it here when I broke your beloved rosary that you kissed every night? Where is that love?" He drops the beads and goes to the empty tissue box and picks it up. "What about here? Was it here when you were crying yourself to sleep every night? Is that love?"

"How can you not see it?"