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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Relationships
- Published: 07/29/2013
QUARREL
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, GermanyQUARREL
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
Randolph had just come in the door, early from work this time, sharing a ride with a colleague in order to come home before his announced time. His fascinating rehearsal in a large arena was all he wanted to share with his wife. Invite her and his daughter to the dress rehearsal, due in two days, was his aim.
But his wife wasn’t interested. She had to work on that following day and their daughter had to go to kindergarten. He persisted, wanting to give the girls a nice cultural experience. After all, he was a singer and he would miss their presence. When he came home, filled with love and enthusiasm, she sat in front of the TV. Like so often, she didn’t even say hello to him.
She turned off the TV and walked into the garden when he came in, he followed her, spoke of love and sharing things with them. She didn’t answer, but he still shared his experiences. She still didn’t answer him and so he tried romance: “All I want is to share love with you and hug you. All I want is to know what goes on inside you.”
“You don’t care about me.”
“Of course I do. I care a lot.”
“You don’t care about what I do. You don’t care about me.”
There was that dagger again, stabbing into Randolph’s heart. Over and over again until it bled. His heart was turning into a snowball that started rolling downhill. He looked into his wife’s eyes and saw that she meant it. The problem was that it wasn’t true at all. Not one bit. His definition of truth and care was different. He cared a lot about her, but keeping a clean house wasn’t his top priority. His top priority was showing her love, sharing stuff with her. Her priority was keeping the house clean.
“Of course I care about you. What are you talking about?”
“You don’t give a damn if I have cleaned up all day and you then make a mess of things. I saw that yesterday. I spend the entire day cleaning up and you wipe the floor with the window rag. I say you should be careful about not spreading the water stains around and, darn it, you walk right into the stains and wipe them on the bathroom carpet. Thanks for nothing, you egotistical bastard.”
Randolph followed Stella from the kitchen into the livingroom.
As she rolled down the blinds, he responded.
“Darling, all I want is to be with you and share things with you.”
“Look, if I ruined the lawn that you mowed today, you wouldn’t like it either.”
“My priority is to be able to have a good life with you, not a clean house.”
“Oh, that’s great. But I do want to keep a clean house and you ruin my work. You blubber on and on about your stuff. You ... don’t ... care.”
She walked down the hall and up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom. He followed her and wondered if he should talk to her. She was getting ready for bed. No. No. Maybe not. He muttered something about killing himself, but felt silly saying it. Why? He loved life too much.
He wanted and needed romance with her. She needed a clean house.
Randolph loved her. He truly loved her. But in the spur of a moment she could turn on him. Randolph’s parents had been so artistic, their home had been full of art and music and anyone overdedicated to bloody cleaning had been deemed lower orders. When Randolph’s mama got sick and senile, Stella worked her ass off to get mama 1000 kilometres nearer over to where they lived. The result, however, was that almost all of the old stuff, the art and coins and student’s presents disappeared in the clean up of the old flat, because Randolph had not been strong enough to handle the move himself. He was there with train three times.
Now, he had a creative drive that was endless. But Stella knew only remotely about that. She waved away the pain of losing thirty years of treasures.
Standing alone in the livingroom, he uttered a prayer:
“God, oh, God. Please give me a sign. Lead me. Where should I go? What is my next move? I need to know what to do.”
As always in these situations, he received a special sign from within:
“Turn on the TV, channel 314. There you will find your answer.”
What did he find there? Oliver Platt playing a drunk, lonely husband wanting to divorce his wife, because she was performing adultery with a black man.
What was that supposed to tell him? Randolph had been adulterous once. He was lucky to still be married. He loved his wife and a month ago she had still told a girlfriend that she was very happy with him.
“I cannot complain about him right now.”
So, what was this?
Randolph was confused.
He had asked God for a sign and got a story about an unhappy marriage?
“You are not seeing the bigger picture,” the voice within him said. “In the concert hall I told you that you are given Stella, because you need to create your art for yourself and have these kind of experiences for you, not for anyone else. Your daughter is artistic enough without seeing this event. The bigger picture is that we showed you this TV-programme in order to influence you to turn this pain into art. Take the pain and make it beautiful. Do something with it. That will help.”
Stella sleeping upstairs, his daughter Thelma sleeping in her room, Randolph took the pain of loneliness and threw his threat of suicide out the window.
He did the only right thing.
He turned the pain into art.
He wrote a short story.
QUARREL(Charles E.J. Moulton)
QUARREL
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
Randolph had just come in the door, early from work this time, sharing a ride with a colleague in order to come home before his announced time. His fascinating rehearsal in a large arena was all he wanted to share with his wife. Invite her and his daughter to the dress rehearsal, due in two days, was his aim.
But his wife wasn’t interested. She had to work on that following day and their daughter had to go to kindergarten. He persisted, wanting to give the girls a nice cultural experience. After all, he was a singer and he would miss their presence. When he came home, filled with love and enthusiasm, she sat in front of the TV. Like so often, she didn’t even say hello to him.
She turned off the TV and walked into the garden when he came in, he followed her, spoke of love and sharing things with them. She didn’t answer, but he still shared his experiences. She still didn’t answer him and so he tried romance: “All I want is to share love with you and hug you. All I want is to know what goes on inside you.”
“You don’t care about me.”
“Of course I do. I care a lot.”
“You don’t care about what I do. You don’t care about me.”
There was that dagger again, stabbing into Randolph’s heart. Over and over again until it bled. His heart was turning into a snowball that started rolling downhill. He looked into his wife’s eyes and saw that she meant it. The problem was that it wasn’t true at all. Not one bit. His definition of truth and care was different. He cared a lot about her, but keeping a clean house wasn’t his top priority. His top priority was showing her love, sharing stuff with her. Her priority was keeping the house clean.
“Of course I care about you. What are you talking about?”
“You don’t give a damn if I have cleaned up all day and you then make a mess of things. I saw that yesterday. I spend the entire day cleaning up and you wipe the floor with the window rag. I say you should be careful about not spreading the water stains around and, darn it, you walk right into the stains and wipe them on the bathroom carpet. Thanks for nothing, you egotistical bastard.”
Randolph followed Stella from the kitchen into the livingroom.
As she rolled down the blinds, he responded.
“Darling, all I want is to be with you and share things with you.”
“Look, if I ruined the lawn that you mowed today, you wouldn’t like it either.”
“My priority is to be able to have a good life with you, not a clean house.”
“Oh, that’s great. But I do want to keep a clean house and you ruin my work. You blubber on and on about your stuff. You ... don’t ... care.”
She walked down the hall and up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom. He followed her and wondered if he should talk to her. She was getting ready for bed. No. No. Maybe not. He muttered something about killing himself, but felt silly saying it. Why? He loved life too much.
He wanted and needed romance with her. She needed a clean house.
Randolph loved her. He truly loved her. But in the spur of a moment she could turn on him. Randolph’s parents had been so artistic, their home had been full of art and music and anyone overdedicated to bloody cleaning had been deemed lower orders. When Randolph’s mama got sick and senile, Stella worked her ass off to get mama 1000 kilometres nearer over to where they lived. The result, however, was that almost all of the old stuff, the art and coins and student’s presents disappeared in the clean up of the old flat, because Randolph had not been strong enough to handle the move himself. He was there with train three times.
Now, he had a creative drive that was endless. But Stella knew only remotely about that. She waved away the pain of losing thirty years of treasures.
Standing alone in the livingroom, he uttered a prayer:
“God, oh, God. Please give me a sign. Lead me. Where should I go? What is my next move? I need to know what to do.”
As always in these situations, he received a special sign from within:
“Turn on the TV, channel 314. There you will find your answer.”
What did he find there? Oliver Platt playing a drunk, lonely husband wanting to divorce his wife, because she was performing adultery with a black man.
What was that supposed to tell him? Randolph had been adulterous once. He was lucky to still be married. He loved his wife and a month ago she had still told a girlfriend that she was very happy with him.
“I cannot complain about him right now.”
So, what was this?
Randolph was confused.
He had asked God for a sign and got a story about an unhappy marriage?
“You are not seeing the bigger picture,” the voice within him said. “In the concert hall I told you that you are given Stella, because you need to create your art for yourself and have these kind of experiences for you, not for anyone else. Your daughter is artistic enough without seeing this event. The bigger picture is that we showed you this TV-programme in order to influence you to turn this pain into art. Take the pain and make it beautiful. Do something with it. That will help.”
Stella sleeping upstairs, his daughter Thelma sleeping in her room, Randolph took the pain of loneliness and threw his threat of suicide out the window.
He did the only right thing.
He turned the pain into art.
He wrote a short story.
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