He Waits Helplessly

By Emma Shortt

The room was washed in the palest of light. Perhaps if the mullioned windows were cleaner the light might be brighter, but they were not; and so the light was very much like a chick struggling free from the last of its egg shell.

The metal bed was pushed head-first against one graying wall, and it and the woman on it were shaking, ever so slightly. Also in the room was a veneered cabinet, chipped around the edges, and a chair that had seen far too many years. There was more spring left on the chair than padding and so the man chose to stand next to the bed.