In The Middle

She missed the twilight while she was at the store, wandering around the aisles sort of dazed, trying to remember if they are out of milk at the house, if she needs more ravioli or feta cheese. The winter’s held off the last couple of weeks—she’s been trying to spin out wearing her cute new babydoll jacket she got at the thrift store for as long as possible–but today the big coat went on, and it won’t come off until August at least, very possibly longer. It’s been raining all day and her fingers are numb: she doesn’t know where she’s put her gloves from last year. She hoists her shopping bags to her shoulders and thinks about reorganizing the closet as she steps down wet streets to the bus stop, tired and cold and ready for the week to be over.

The city blurs and drips on the other side of the window as she stares out at nothing—the harbour is dim and quiet, the lights of the city far away. She shifts her gaze to the outline of her chin and cheeks and lips, her considerable nose, the bill of her hat. Middle age, she thinks, coming soon. She thinks about the lines from her nose to her mouth, the bags under her eyes. Her groceries shift in their bags as the bus belches forward, she leans back in the seat and looks out at the dark of the bay, past her own profile in reflection, past the hills she knows are there.

In her earbuds Neko Case growls and cries and screams and shouts. You thought you could outrun sorrow, Neko sings, up along the stairs and in through the door, too cold and drenched to look at the view or the stars as she often does on the way home. There’s nothing to see, tonight, there’s cloud and mist and wind all over everything and she just wants to get in by the fire. You’re the one that I miss, sings Neko as she forces open the front door’s tricky lock, flicks on the light, dumps her bags on the kitchen bench. She takes off her heavy coat and hangs it to dry.

Everyone’s home, tonight, for once, and they all settle in front of the fire and a movie, wearing yoga pants and hoodies and eating pasta. They chat, a little, all exhausted from the week. They talk about what they all thought of Muriel’s Wedding when they first saw it, and about what they think about weddings. She checks her email and eats her pasta, puts another log on the fire. They talk about transformation and success—how did the conversation get there? Two minutes ago they were talking about bacon—and about being on the right path. How do you know if you’re on it, is the question. How can you tell?

Sometimes, one of them says, you just know. It’s clear and obvious and you just feel it.

Sometimes, she thinks to herself as she gathers her teacup and laptop and fake-fur-lined hoodie, you can’t tell. You can’t feel anything at all. You don’t know what the end of the story is going to look like so you don’t know how deep in the middle of it you are. We live our lives in the middle of the story, every day.

She brushes her teeth, fills her hot water bottles, throws her dirty clothes on the floor instead of in the hamper where they belong. Tomorrow she’ll put her things away, she’ll do her taxes and make a nice breakfast and call her mom. She slides into the icy bed, curls around the polarfleeced-covered haloes under the covers. Stretches, sighs, listens to the wind at the window, fumbles and reaches for the light.