The silent story

Sunday morning was her idyllic time. It was when tea, the newspaper, the silence they all got together and comforted her. In the weird quagmire that was her life, she needed the comfort of an unfailing routine. That was what they had become, a big fat wad of silence.

Not so long ago, there was romance and laughter. Somewhere in the conversations they had a slower enunciation happened. The rapid, non-stop syllables that were hammered out a syllable a second turned into something slower, more pronounced. Over time, they became a few words a minute. Even later, there was silence. The mother of all conversations. Now, their relationship was sealed, with a piece of paper and a host of other social specifications that was condensed in a gold pendant that she wore around her neck.

The scrape of a cup pulled her out of her reverie. She was back, immersed in the magazine section of the Sunday paper reading and being quiet.