Young Writers Society

Writer in the kitchen

Jamie didn’t know what was the greater surprise-seeing his wife up so late or finding her up so late in the kitchen. Naturally an early bird, his wife was usually awake at the wee hours of morning, her internal clock intuitively countered to match the rays of dawn.

He knew that when she had been younger, she would lay awake and listen to the birds that had inhabited the attic of the house she grew up in.

She found endless joy in tiny things, like watching the sun light the sky, slowly, one centimeter at a time, or like listening to the woodpecker behind her wall get closer to her bed, or like admiring the patience of a spider in its web.

He knew all this because she had told him, once, long ago. Now, he leaned against the doorway into the homely kitchen contemplatively, admiring the view of her at the sink. He used to tease that her modesty made his life dull.

She wore a simple blue robe, with large pockets because she believed life wasn’t complete without them. She never wore slippers, rarely socks, and when she had a choice, preferred not to wear shoes either. She would walk outside in the snow barefoot, if he’d let her.

Her hair was tied into a simple braid behind her head, not a piece out of place. The robe covered most everything, reaching down to even obscure her thin ankles. She was uncomfortable wearing anything that could tantalize the human mind, most times refusing to wear a skirt or show her shoulders.

So he teased, but never meant it. When they had first met, her modesty had been what Jamie found most attractive about her. Humility was hard to find these days. Grasping at his runaway thoughts, he took a step in.

She cocked her head, the same way an eagle cocks its head when it hears a mouse skittering the grass below. She had an eerie way of hearing things, probably because she spent so much time in silent solitary confinement.

She complained in public of bad hearing, but somehow she always managed to know where people were at all times by the sound of their voice of the shuffle of their feet.

He didn’t halt, and she didn’t turn. She showed no signs of being spooked. She had probably known he was there.

Wordlessly he walked up to the teapot on the stove, simmering, and poured himself a mug. She didn’t comment, nor turn to bid him good morning. Jamie found that reassuring.

She knew he was there, what need did they have for greetings? Silence spoke better between them, it filled the air with what was unsaid, and more warmly.

He leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. Whereas she packed hers with sugar, he preferred his beverages plain. He watched her, without curiosity or expression, but more of fondness.

For one that spent most of her life in a single room, her atelier of worlds, sitting, she was surprisingly graceful in her movements. Quick, efficient, almost spider-like.

He noted that her finger and wrist control was better honed that most peoples. She had mastered control of her arms and hand joints with a patience that the first cavemen had. No wonder, typing did give a sense of balance.

In the quiet silence that beckoned morning, she somehow had managed to incorporate music. She was doing some quick cleaning; she despised disorganization, though she could thrive in such an environment.

She rinsed the dishes, clinking cups, forks and spoons in a gentle but insistent beat. Tonk, tink, tink.

She swiped the rag, moved a bit to the left, and began shuffling through mail, only to finally tap them down in order to straighten and put them, in alphabetical order now, no doubt, onto the dining room table before venturing back without a word. Swish, clunk, swish, clunk.

Deftly she turned the water on and off, then tweaking, brushing at certain intervals. Shh, sh, sshh, sh, sshh. He felt as if he were listening to a sonata and wondered if she were doing it on purpose or whether even the Music Muse also favored her.

Everything she did, even her constant tapping upon the keyboard, had a certain music to it. The way she walked, talked and gesticulated were the fluid gestures of a composer, the efficient confidence of a diplomat, the unerring awe of a scientist, and dramatic flair of an actor. He was not all that certain which one she was most like.

He had missed her, the past few months. She had been away, in Europe, for a book tour. Being one of the most famous writers of the twenty second century did that, he supposed.

She had had two novels turned into film; and had helped direct both. Scholars for philosophical and moral debate examined her short stories. People compared her poems to those of Emily Dickinson.She had been interviewed by newscasters, talk show hosts, and overall did the title of writer proud.

In a world where literature and language was being crushed beneath the massive weight of technology and machinery, she had revived the love in people for a good book.

Jamie was proud of her. At times he wished he weren’t just the background character in her escapades, that perhaps he could have been able to go on the tour with her instead of waiting at home, wondering where she was, who she was meeting, what the cities she traveled too looked like…

But, as she would say, that was not to be his part in this. She did not say it unkindly, or arrogantly, but with a sort of melancholic envy. She was often melancholic, not in the way of depression, but just the sort of wise melancholy that accompanied those who thought too frequently for their own good. When they had first met, he had asked her why it seemed to him that she was always mourning.

“Someone in the world is dying right now. A mother, a father, a son, a daughter,” she had answered. “What does that have to do with you? Everyone dies eventually,” he had pointed out. She had only smiled gently, looking at him, and turned away.

As she liked to say, there were many lessons that could not be explained, but conveyed only in silence. For one whom was the master of words; that had always confused him, though it was an endearing trait in her he treasured.

He had found there was not much she didn’t understand, about him or the world around. And even if she said naught, she conveyed that understanding through the gentle smile she dished out with bias.

The same gentle smile she gave him, when at last, she turned around to look at him. Sleep did not dishevel her, more along the lines of making her more fragile looking, something that was not often there. She was stretching her fingers, they were probably cramping again. Deep dark brown eyes looked him over, but he was used to the gaze.

He had met many writers, she was part of the universal community of them, after all, and no longer felt unease at the intensity of their gaze. It was something they had control over, but if they couldn’t use it, they preferred just not to look at you.

The expression in her eyes was a mingled blend of amusement, curiosity, intelligence, intuition and a spine chilling feeling that she was staring straight into your soul, studying you as a child might intensely study an odd looking rock.

She was constantly analyzing things, and she had never stopped studying him, since they met. When they had spoken the vows on their wedding day, for goodness sakes, when his eyes had locked with hers, he had been able to tell she was still studying his soul.

“Hey,” he said softly, unwilling to completely break the code of silence. She grinned with all the brilliance of the sun. “Hello,” she rarely used slang, and if she did, it was her own slang she had concocted for one of her novels.

Other times she used slang from the sixteenth or eighteenth centuries. Sometimes, even, she would revert to other languages.

He found it irritating much of the time, but for now, his gladness of her return overshadowed it. He grinned back, and sipped again. She cocked her head, an indication that she had found his movement fascinating.

“You must have been tired,” he observed, watching how her eyes flicked from his face to the sunlight filtering in through the windows and then back, as if she were making a comparison between the two. He felt laughter bubbling up.

She was so weird.

“I don’t think in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve ever woken up before you, or found you in the kitchen instead of at your desk,” he said. She shrugged. “Technically, in Sweden, time works differently.It would be midnight there,” she explained.

She had circles beneath her eyes. Insomnia was a battle she had fought her entire life, the curse of having a mind that didn’t know when to settle down. Jamie resolved to drug the nightly tea she drank; she needed the rest.

“How was Sweden? You did bring me pictures, didn’t you?” He demanded. She smiled, and nodded, perking up a bit. “I did. I also found you a keepsake from each country. You now have little baubles from ten of the European countries, congratulations,” she remarked brightly. He shook his head at her teasing.

She was good for it. “Thank you. By the way, your mom called. She wants to come over later, to welcome you back,” in fact the entire town would probably want to welcome her back.

She nodded; face screwing into mild distaste. She disliked visitors of any sort; it took precious time away from her writing. Yet she valued family, along with honor, as a highest belief.

“Did you make sure and tell her the wrong address?” She asked, and he chuckled, the long-standing joke putting more warmth between them. “No, I said the right one…This time,” then, he sobered.

She noticed the change and cocked her head to show either interest or that he had her complete attention, which wasn’t always such a wise thing to obtain. Her intuition had yet to fail them.

“Do you know when your next tour will be?” he asked, reluctantly. How much time did they have together? She smiled, gently, eyes sparkling now with excitement.

He wondered whom she had murdered, what sort of pencil she had used to stab the poor fellow with, and if there had been any witnesses.

“Two months hence. John wants me to come examine the set where they’ll be shooting The Legend of the Locket,” she explained. Jaime nodded; John was the director and producer of all movies that had been based off her books.

It was about time they got started on the legend. He remembered watching her write it, and still wondered why he’d never thought to measure how long she spent staring ponderingly out the windows during the creation of that one.

He sighed, wholeheartedly. Jamie knew, without doubt, that she loved him. He loved her, too, but a part of him had always secretly wondered if her writing had a larger portion of her affections than he did.

“Where are you going?” He pretended interest. She smiled, teasingly, and with a silent sort of grace took his empty mug from him.

Not answering, she turned to the sink, where her music began again as she washed his cup. Tonk, tink, tink. Swish, clunk, swish, clunk. Shh, sh, sshh, sh, sshh.

“We,” she responded over her shoulder, back to him. “Are going to Australia. Sydney, to be more precise. I believe you said you once wanted to reserve a seat in the Sydney Opera House?” She halted, a moment, hands trained in midair under the running water, letting the chill of it numb the pain in her fingers.

“John promised us front seats,” she informed him with utmost confidence. Jamie stood, transfixed. He was going to Sydney with her? He had never been on a tour with her. She had never had time to ask him if he would like to come.

“Why?” he asked softly. He could think of no other question. She ducked her head so that he would not see the smile he knew was rightfully there.

“Of all the questions you could have asked… John wants to meet you. I believe he’s lonely, for all he’s a millionaire. He needs a friend, and since I am unable to stop talking about anything but you when I’m out of country, he decided to put my word to the test. I trust you won’t make a liar out of me, will you Jaime?”

Though excitement and joy filled his every pore, Jaime did nothing but shrug nonchalantly. He smiled, but not wide enough to give voice to the emotions sweeping through him. He was going with her. He was going to Australia!

“It may cross my mind once or twice,” he answered with feigned boredom. Silence and understatement were forms of eloquence, an art form they excelled in. “Now,” briskly, she turned the water off and dried her hands in the span of a few seconds.

“Would you like to go to the bookstore? I’m starting a new novel. I need a book on penguins,” she asserted. He crossed his arms and leaned back, yawning, somehow content in their silence, and the music that seemed to follow her, and now in the new development of travel.

“Maybe in a few hours. I need to perfect my accent,” then, as something more occurred to him, “what in the world can you write about penguins?” he demanded.

His wife snorted as she walked past him, as if she weren’t touching the ground but dancing on air, out of the kitchen. He followed her.

“Jaime, dear, you should know by now that I don’t know. No writer knows what they’re talking about until they put it down on paper. All the same, let’s watch some cartoons,” she proposed.

“Cables out,” he grunted. “Then let’s prank call John,” she decided, and Jaime shrugged, perfectly content with his life.

Flicking off the kitchen lights behind him, he followed his writer into the other rooms of the house, leading, and yet following her along what she would poetically call “their shared path of destiny.”

“Okay,” he said.