The Shed.

# break out of frames

	Header always append X-Frame-Options SAMEORIGIN


They always drove used, beige American cars. Unmarked could be many things, but never exotic. Only the marked dressed outlandishly, she’d read. To these, standing out in a crowd was purposeful; for the subversive, bland was the order.

Such was the descriptor of the vehicle and driver she’d registered that Easter Sunday morning in 2002, just missing it pull away from her curb opening her own car door and stepping in.

She’d always been able to know a face, particularly one which had become the object of her fixation.  And, this white haired balding Anglo-Saxon profile staring straight over the steering wheel was unmistakeable through her side view mirror, the sedan slowing briefly at her corner Stop sign as she passed by heading toward the boulevard.

Her white trimmed navy sheath suit with the covered buttons all the way down the skirt looked smart, her dark hair fluffed full with the last gasp of peri-menopause. If only the side entry shed were not completely overrun with garbage in bags, too many, the stench of rotting food wafting upward through its confined space every winter thaw.

She’d been a good seven years shy of early retirement from public ed and spring, still the season of accelerated chaos, over the more recent five (and, final) years had morphed into rehearsal and production for the school musical, interrupted most inconveniently by Easter vacation.

This year, the living room floor cluttered with the customary foamboard and prop pieces, she’d been invited out. Private studio parents, Ukrainian first generation Americans, he a urologist and she mother to three sons, members of the west side country club for the wealthy elite. Would she meet them for Easter brunch?

Their eldest son her student, readying for high school, was most enamored of the liquid chocolate fountain, driven by soy oil and some obscure solvent. She, recently diagnosed gluten and soy intolerant, would pick at the lavish buffet, a tiny salad, some fruit, relieved to eat sparingly so as to be more comfortable in public dressed in her white buttoned navy sheath.

Congruent with the formality of the grande dining room, tables set several feet apart like the upper classes preferred, his mother – who always spoke in hushed, rapid delivery – would choose this luncheon to disclose to her a history with the NSA. His father, a Venezuelan, confirmed.

Even her tax accountant and his wife, seated just a table away, he, feigning nonchalance, deliberately sniffing around the buffet well within her field of vision, would never be the wiser.

Listening to this revelation, she wondered whether the stink in the side shed had so put off her curious visitor that he’d made a hasty exit, never to return. Perhaps he had placed a bug on her wall, some high tech chip capable of recording her every utterance, her goings and comings, or perhaps that had merely been his plan until he’d caught a whiff of the decay. She’d been reading his best seller, published soon after 911 and thought, sitting there over brunch that, if he had placed one, it would be well hidden from any chance of her discovery; he was certainly impossible to trace, though she’d made several attempts at locating contact info. On the way back home across town, she’d settled for one fleeting hope that he might have considered the foul mess residue from a renter, and herself the lady of the manor.

* * * *

Fifteen years hence, the shed was still a catch all for the loose ends in her life. It had, however, taken on a more refined character, transformed to reflect the subtle but evolved nature of her existence. Gardening tools, political yard signs, several Green Blender boxes, and a large cluster of dug up dahlia bulbs now filled the space formerly suffocated by trash.

He’d published several more books, and she was reading his latest, a novel, one or two chapters at a time before sleep in the wee hours after practicing her trio program on the new Steinway. He’d won a prestigious award, his acceptance speech archived on YouTube, he, standing in classic grey suit, slacks draping the kind of body which preferred boxers to briefs. She marveled at his vitality, and wondered if he played tenor sax like the hero in the novel, or whether this was merely a nod to the former leader of the free world.

The world had come at quite a price, anymore, bond or free; as for herself, she could no longer fit into the white buttoned navy sheath, which had faded to maroon.






© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 1/20/17         All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for reporting all ghost written plagiarisms.


7 thoughts on “The Shed.

  1. Well well, aren’t you the woman of mystery! I read this one 3 times, I wonder if there was quite a bit of editing before publishing? It didn’t quite flow, but I liked that about it, I felt myself deciphering clues to something deep and precious ❤ 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

        1. That’s interesting. Are you in India? My stats don’t show any views from the UK for this period……those stats aren’t always filled, however, I suspect……I think the dual aspect of overtly attending the luncheon but ruminating on the covert visit makes the stream of consciousness sort of double back on itself. Will revisit after leaving it for awhile. What’s the commentary over there re this inauguration? Anything noteworthy? And, are there any women’s marches in the UK, I wonder……

          Liked by 1 person

          1. There’s been a huge demo in Trafalgar Square of 100,000 women! I think all the Brexit ultra patriotism here has contributed to public revulsion about Trump, the commentary on the TV has been negative, as has the comedy shows and topical responses, even the Mayor of London has come out against, but most tories (ruling party) support Trump, so a lot of people feel under the thumb I think.

            I see what you’re trying to do, maybe the 2 events need some bridging section to tie it all together, or write it in the first person perspective, with little personal notes such as “She shivered to think of the uncollected garbage outside her home, the clutter seemed to be growing – alongside her self doubt” Yeah, could ramp up the personal side a bit, make us feel you, on the edge of something 😉

            I’m still in the UK, sadly not on a Passage to India! 😀 HA,ha, great book, had to study it to pass a course 25yrs ago, the film is a fine way to spend a few hrs too! XX

            Liked by 1 person

            1. Playing piano, all day, concert tonight. Will consider your points, OF — I’m rather single minded about my work, sort of a hopeless ego thing, probably…..the covert thing was supposed to come across as fleeting and very discreet, so maybe that’s why it doesn’t oppose the real scene as typically…..?

              Liked by 1 person

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