Solstice
“I feel completely unfulfilled.” Bea lifted her cup of tea, took a sip, and put it back down on top of the newspaper she was reading.
“Is there something in the paper that made you say that?” Lindsay asked.
“I don’t know what it is,” Bea said. “Age. Isolation.”
“Maybe if we had more sex—would that help?” Lindsay smiled, took a sip of her own tea.
“I don’t think it’s about sex.” Bea smiled back. She rattled the newspaper and folded the crossword into a perfect rectangle. She did that every Sunday, and every Sunday she completed the upper right corner and the bottom left, leaving the rest for Lindsay to finish before going to bed. “Maybe we’re in a rut,” Bea suggested.
“You worry too much.” Lindsay stood, stretched, yawned. She pointed toward the window. “Look at that sunrise,” she said.
Bea picked up her tea and walked over so she could look out. Lindsay followed.
“The trees are completely bare,” Bea said.
“That won’t last,” Lindsay offered. “Before you know it, there will be leaves again.”
Bea squinted into the winter light.
“Did you remember?” Bea asked. “Today is Winter Solstice.”
Lindsay kissed the back of Bea’s head. “I didn’t remember till you told me.” She leaned her body against Bea’s.
“Well, there you go.”
Bea turned around and into Lindsay’s hug there in the light of the window on that shortest day of the year.
Commenting is closed for this article.