Teardrops are a collection of short, slightly sad stories (but remember, there are tears of joy and of love), that exist for a brief moment before they are wiped, and shed every Sunday. Or when they are ready, whichever comes last...

A candle

by Antheros

I was peacefully watching the candle flicker. It was about to die, just a small amount of wax left to be burnt. There's a certain quietness in candles that is so appealing; somehow knowing that what seems to be a constant, static light, is actually the wax slowly burning. There was a second candle in the room, but to me it was only illuminating this dying one.

That was when my wife entered the room, and went directly to the dying candle. I thought that she was going to blow it off. That would be very much like her. I almost told her to leave the dying candle alone, because I was watching it, but I've been married long enough to be wiser than that. She didn't blow it off, though. She only used it to lighten another candle and go back to the phone.

She called friend number four, if I kept the counting right, to complain about the electric company. There was a storm that looked like a hurricane outside, and she has spent every second since the power went out complaining about it. Why can't women enjoy quietness? What is wrong with it? Maybe, long ago, when we were just married, we'd not have minded that there was no TV. We'd have smiled naughtily and gone to bed. But, even then, she'd talk. After the sex, she'd lie her head on my lap and chat. Why do they always have to be talking? Perhaps she wonders the same way about me, about men. Why we can't lower the toilet seat, why do we want to watch the game on TV instead of her favorite show. She talked to friend number four for a long time, and, when she hang up, she called the electric company—for the, what, fifth time? Sixth? I lost count. She told them once again that we didn't have power. She spent the next five minutes complaining, very loudly. A lovely summer night; the storm is gone now; the air is fresh and cool, pleasant. A shame that the sky is still clouded; I would have loved to see the stars that pollution and city lights hide from our eyes. And she is on the phone.

The candle still burns. I miscalculated its lifetime. It was dim, now, but didn't seem to be ready to die any time soon. My wife hung up, and called friend number two for the third time, to tell her, well, nothing really. This call doesn't last long. My wife comes back into the room, to tell me that the electric company said that this time they're going to fix it. I wasn't very polite, I think. I think I just grunted. “I'm having a bath,” she says, very coldly. I could never understand her fondness for cold showers. Sometimes I wonder if it's just to prevent me from joining her in the shower.

I'm glad I'm not horny today. I haven't been horny at all, lately. Just lonely.

Oh, look. The candle just died.

14 May 2006
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