Microfiction: Chorus

For Ronovan’s Friday Fiction. The prompt is a concert.

Attente_à_la_fenêtre

It had been the longest night, of a fitful, light sleep between bouts of wakefulness. Each time she surfaced, the stab of pain had made her gasp. It had been the first night she had slept alone in years, and her body could not believe that he was not there. The space howled, the sheets tossed like an angry sea, and her hand reached out involuntarily as if it expected to find his warmth, that it had all been a mistake. But the night air moaned and muttered with his last words and she knew that those words could never be taken back. Even if she had wanted to forgive him, his pride would not swallow them.

Grey light fell through the cracks in the shutters and there could be no more pretence that there was still time for him to come home. The night was over, and he had not returned. He had gone where he had said he would, to those warm arms and fluttering, diaphanous smiles, all pulpous mouth and no words. As the light increased the hurt grew. She flung back the sheets and stumbled to the window, her back to the bed and the empty room. She raised the latch and pushed open the shutters onto a calm morning, lusciously damp and green. He had taken everything, she thought, even her pleasure in the secret dawn. Her mouth pulled into a tight, bitter line and she stared down into the garden angrily, as if she expected to find broken pieces of her heart lying among the flowers.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, the first bird piped the opening notes of its morning song. In the birch trees, the finches gathered, bright feathers catching the light, and the blackbird was joined by another, then the robin and the wagtails, the redtails and the tits, until the air throbbed and rippled with music. The tight line of her mouth loosened and she smiled. He hadn’t taken everything after all.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

11 thoughts on “Microfiction: Chorus”

  1. Lovely. You capture so well that forlorn and desperate hope evaporating into bitterness. The birdsong saves not just her but me the reader too.

    1. Thank you 🙂 I like to think that birdsong would always work for me. I’m not sure anything does when you sink really low, but when it’s a case of a lover leaving, there’s maybe always something to be salvaged, often actually celebrated 🙂

  2. How I love this piece, Jane! Those garden birds work such magic, and bring such pleasure.

    The other morning my old Robin was back in the garden with the young slim one! Later, the young one came with his mate. She hopped right onto the steps and I wondered what she was doing. Then I saw she had something in her beak, a tuft of Indi’s hair. Indi’s my lab. She was busy collecting his hair from the garden to line her nest. And her mate, needless to say, was letting her do all the work and stuffing his face at the same time!

    1. Typical. Our blackbird couple still comes back to the garden though they nest somewhere safer now. Margot runs right up to the house and peers inside. Trixie is too fat to be bothered but Finbar has started chasing her. Probably thinks she’s trying to move in.

      1. Lol! I don’t know where my birds nests are. Some bird is nesting in the air vent of my cooker hood, so I can’t use it till she’s gone. Don’t think it’s my Robins or blackbirds though. I’ve tried watching, but no bird has emerged while I watched. Can hear her though when I’m in my kitchen.

      2. Might be a dove. They nest in chimneys but you hear them cooing. Your extractor has gone the way of our ladder then 🙂 Hope you see the chicks to make up for it.

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