Short Scene: Portrait of Miranda

Jan 02, 2008 - 14:26 PM PST

Portrait of Miranda

They said she was successful. Her friends watched her with narrowed eyes, searching for the invisible details that set her apart from them, They asked her to come to restaurants with them, ones rid of small children with sticky fingers. Miranda always offered to pay the check, and her friends would politely resist, but never too much, for fear Miranda would not pull back.

Each night, after her friends scrambled back to homes full of chaotic children and a husband, Miranda slowly climbed into the driver's seat of a black, sporty car and meandered along the abandoned, well-lit streets until a large house overflowing in the darkness of a proud oak tree came into view.

She never failed to hesitate before opening the car door. Could she go inside for just one more night? Could she continue her life this way - alone in a house meant for a large family? This was not supposed to be hers. Yet Miranda always pushed the car door open and pulled one foot out, then the other. She always found herself at the doorstep, key in hand, key in door, then key in purse once more. Miranda enjoyed routine but loathed this one.

Once inside, she would glance around the empty rooms that echoed her every footstep. Wood floors gave hollow taps as her high heels met the floor. She kicked them off in the hallways so they wouldn't remind her of the sound the house lacked.

The bed was cold. It was forever cold; the old sheets stiff and neat. For awhile, she would read a thick book with a monochrome cover. The ending was always the same, the characters always knew what to do and when. And how. At precisely eleven-thirty, Miranda set the book on her nightstand and let the chilled sheets cover her nearly lifeless body. The only thing Miranda had left was a pulse.