Plates
The plates were stacked in the kitchen. I looked at them with contempt. The pile was only going to diminish when I finally decided to wash them. I picked up the dishcloth, freshly bleached, and tied the yellow apron, tying it neatly around my waist. Someone had bought me it for our wedding, a reminder of what I was now to expect.
As I grew up I knew I wanted something else from the girls who seemed happy to ditch their fledgling careers and marry young. I kept my desire because I knew what they would say. I thought I might be different, but here I am Mrs. Smith.
I dry my hands and put the brisket in the oven, one eye on the ticking clock in the corner. Richard will be home soon, expecting dinner on the table after a hard day out in the real world.
I was lucky, but I didn't feel it. The world outside was changing, but I was stuck in a shell, aching to get out. Richard would come home and tut at the women in the papers - burning their bras and demanding women's lib. I nodded and pretended that I couldn't understand their frustration, when really they seemed like the only ones who understood.
I read about them avidly, as if they had got into my head - no, my soul, and spelt it out on paper. Something had to change.
One Saturday morning, I decided it was time. Everything seemed normal and I doubt Richard suspected a thing as he came down in his flannel pajamas. But something was different. A subtle difference, an absent smell, a room too silent.
The note on the kitchen worktop read:
"Gone out, back tonight.
Bacon is in fridge, get your own breakfast".
