The Good Cry

A final ugly bellow followed by the front door's slam and then. . . the natural and sweet respite of silence. She remained where he'd left her and faced a pair of stony eyes staring back at her from the bathroom mirror. Stoically she stood, anger-fingers pressed to the inside of the basin's rim. A gall of indignation clutched at the inside of her throat. Her whispered curses waxed into a scream, "I hate you. You bastard. I Hate You!" Moments later. . . sad, kindred eyes met hers, asking what they always asked, "How do you support this all these years?" She gazed at the only one who truly knew and felt a rush of utter desolation. Concentrated rage was channeled to a river of self-pity. It spilled up and into the bile of her throat, erupting in her helpless gasps, transforming into hard and bitter sobs, and with this lament came gushing tears. Nothing else existed but the woman in the mirror and the grief. Some moments passed. She sniffled. Further weeping now would take some effort. She sighed the sigh of familiar resignation. Glancing at her consort, red-eyed, in the mirror, she turned the faucet on and dabbed a tear-streaked face. The telephone was ringing, so as she went to get the phone, she steeled herself in case the flood had not entirely ebbed. For the Catharsis Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron