Spring Green Life

003 spring green
Despite the damp chill in the night air, Sage Buchanan opened her bedroom window so that she could hear the spring peepers singing their love-songs in the marshy area behind the condominium complex into which she had moved the previous day. Very little was unpacked, everything taped up in boxes, stacked in rooms echoey and smelling of fresh paint. Dinner had been take-out dim sum picked up on her way home from work and half a bottle of chardonnay drunk from a rinsed-out, paper Starbucks coffee cup, lid removed.

Somewhere out there in the wide world, Ethan was also unpacking or perhaps already unpacked. She wanted to call him, tell him how cold the air was here in Maine still in early April, describe the first day of her new job, finally putting her college degree to good use, but of course she couldn’t. He hadn’t given her an address or telephone number two months ago. He’d just handed her his house key, kissed her cheek, and walked away. The movers showed up the following Saturday.

She bent at the waist, leaning across the windowsill to better hear the frogs. In a way, she was grateful for the way Ethan had left things, left her. After the bouts of crying, the deleting of photos from her hard drive, the countless explanations to relatives that there wouldn’t be a wedding in June after all, she’d been forced to reassess. The part-time job at the department store wouldn’t pay the bills, provide health insurance, or contribute to a 401 k retirement plan. Out of necessity, she’d scoured the online hiring sites. Applied for a job in Maine. She spent precious savings to fly up to Maine to interview. She accepted the job as assistant Human Resources director at a local IT company in Portland when it was offered. Yesterday, she moved to a newly-built condominium complex in Old Orchard Beach, just a few miles from the sand and surf. It was a whole new life. Just starting. Future wide open.

Sage pulled her head out of the window, poured another cup of wine, crawled into the nest of blankets and sheets she’d mounded onto the mattress on the floor. Tomorrow she would set up the bed frame. Unpack the boxes. Begin again.

Pulling a well-worn comforter, soft with age, up to her chin, she opened the paperback novel she’d picked up at the airport shop in Tennessee, sipped her wine, sank into the story. The peepers peeped, desperate for love, or sex at least. And somewhere, out there, was Ethan. Her past. Something to put away in storage with her grandmother’s teacups, high school yearbooks, and other miscellaneous stuff accumulated since childhood for which there was no place in her new place, her new future. Her spring green life.


One comment

  1. I do love your shorts!!!! Envious of how you can create such a mesmerizing story with such few words. I always feel like I use ten words when three would probably do.

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