By Shanti Chandrasekhar
Bricks, tiles, cabinets, appliances, she selects for the new home; sample after fabric sample, she turns over and nails the one for the sunroom sofa; a unique coffee table, she singles out; and the top-grade leather for the family-room sectional seating, yes, she chooses it all. Even the wall unit for the study that is his.
While in India, she scans the intricate weavings of each authentic Kashmiri silk-and-wool rug the men roll out.
“Madam?” They look at her, expectant, awaiting a nod from her.
A blend of aroma—cardamom, cinnamon, and clove—drifts into the small showroom. She turns around and faces a skinny teenaged boy holding a tray with a tiny ceramic mug of masala chai for her; the hot liquid, spicy and sugary at once, dribbles down her throat while the cashier makes a bill for the three rugs to be shipped to America.
Back in Virginia, she chooses the texture, the colors of the room-darkening pull-up-pull-down blinds and drapes to cover every window – all thirty-three of them.
Thirty-three windows. Yet she struggles to breathe.
Shapes and colors of her choice surround her, she sees nothing. Her feet tread on smooth tiles and plush carpet, she feels nothing. Nothing. Except the fear that grips her. Fear that leads to panic attacks every so often. Stop, stop, stop! Her voice is lost in the din of the tirade he hurls at her, relentless, night after night, year after year.
Yet, in an attempt to save what the piece of paper locked in a filing cabinet calls marriage, she seeks help; yes, she tries to change another person, but oh, how she fails.
For a fleeting relief from claustrophobia, she opens a window, inhales the chilly air, and breathes out. Her breath, her breath, her breath…warm and foggy, floating out into the dusk, out of the mansion, out of the house that’s never been her home.
Sunlight trickles into her nine-by-ten bedroom through the rental apartment’s stained-white vinyl blinds, awakening her. She’s alone. Yet she’s not. A presence, she senses. Ethereal. Peace surmounts the apprehension of the trials ahead. Peace. For now.
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Shanti Chandrasekhar formerly held professional titles such as project manager, project engineer, and technical writer/editor, yet has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, 50-Word Stories, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Braided Way, Literary Mama, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. She lives in Maryland.