Edith painted her nails to match the flowers on her table. Even through the closed door, she could feel David sulking. She inhaled the sharp acetate odor of the polish as she worked; she concentrated on the soft falls of hair tumbled like blinders on either side of her
(more) face. David didn't want her to go out. HE didn't want to go out, and so expected her to stay home too. He said the Yale was a pit. Her drinks would be poisoned. She would be busted by police. He said she would get followed and raped on the way home. Edith finally managed to look at him then, told him to his face: I just want to hear some fucking jazz. And that is when he had gone into his study and turned on the computer and now was waiting for her to come apologize, or check on him, or to say to hell with the Yale she would listen to Coltrane CDs with him and that would be just as good.
Edith puffed on her nails once, furiously, then stared at them as they dried, feeling his silence like something dark and crawling. He was old and he smelled. He kept himself clean but his neediness, it had a stink she had to leave to escape.
Every Friday Edith made a point of buying fresh flowers, the same way she made a point of going to the gym, and fussing with her nails. Keeping herself nice, maybe a bit over the top when compared to David with his sulky looks and heavy clothes. It was in anticipation of something that wasn't happening yet - she wanted to be ready to fit perfectly into a better life. It waited for her somewhere, in a friendlier dark.(less)
