The Journal of Margaret Allen Charles Sunday June 1, 2003
Day one, new life, new resolve. I have such high hopes for this move to the country. I believe it will save my life. Already I feel my tensions lifting, like the sun breaking though on a dreary day. It's true we just moved in today to this two bedroom apartment. We are barely unpacked. There are boxes everywhere, but I don't think it's too soon to say I feel at home here. Everything seems so familiar, so much like the small town where I grew up. There are trees! And a lawn! And a second floor deck with a view of hills that roll on for miles! I love it!
I have Michael to thank for this new chance at life. What a wonderful surprise. I don't know if it's guilt, fear, love, or pity that made him suggest we move here. It's impossible to tell with Michael. He hates so to talk about feelings, but it doesn't matter to me. Ever since I miscarried I haven't been able to concentrate or be happy. My mind just won't sit still. He can see that. I'm a mess. So he sort of panicked, and when he suggested we move out here to the country I said "yes' instantly, and I'm not looking back. In this place I will learn to concentrate again, to relax again, and to just stop crying. I don't have to face that rat race anymore. That place was killing me. I really believe it.
In an effort to regain my concentration, I resolve to write in you, my dear journal, once per week, no matter what. No excuses accepted.
Sunday June 8, 2003
Well journal, I guess everything is okay. I realize now I was expecting way too much, way too soon. I still cry. I don't feel like doing much of anything. I don't care about much of anything. But this week I managed to unpack all by myself anyway, and I explored some local businesses and resources. Michael is gone all day, and I am left to my own devices, so temptation to give in to inertia is great, but he expects progress. I owe him that much. He has truly sacrificed to bring me here. It takes Michael two hours now to get to and from work every day. I know most husbands would simply rent a room and stay in the city all week. They would just come home on weekends, but Michael doesn't want me to be alone that long. He rarely complains about the commute, but I know it takes a toll. So I do things that look like progress for him, while all I really want to do is sit out on the deck with my feet up on the rail, my mind blank, looking at whatever goes by.
Sunday June 15, 2003
Dear journal, this is a beautiful place. I'm so glad I'm here. Nature can be seen everywhere.
Today I was proofreading a manuscript for Random House in the kitchen. Yes, you heard me right. I am back to work! In fact, I should be posting this manuscript to Random House by the end of the week. I like working in the kitchen because there is natural light and a view of the hills from the window.
Anyway, I looked up and saw two bunnies in the new grass of the lawn. One was much smaller than the other, so I suppose they're mother and child. I'm sure rabbits have more than one baby at a time, but there are so many cats roaming the grounds it's not surprising this mother only has one left. She should count herself lucky to have that one. I only hope the baby has grown too large to become a cat's dinner.
It's funny, all these cats. Our lease clearly stipulates, "No pets." But there must be at least four cats I see daily around the apartments. These are not shy, underfed cats either. Someone clearly is feeding them. It's not that I mind. I love cats. I'd keep one myself if I could.
Sunday June 22, 2003
Bonus! This place, dear journal, is bringing me and Michael closer together. He gets home really tired from his commute, but even so, he has been joining me on the deck every evening. We drink ice tea, he smokes, and we chat. It's so peaceful.
Of course it's not all pleasant. It never is with Michael. He can't ever be completely satisfied. Now it's the dandelions. He insists they are destroying the look of the lawn, and the landlord is remiss in not digging them all up. Personally, I'm glad the landlord has more important things to do than remove dandelions. I think the lawn would be pretty dull without them. I love their little golden faces.
Sunday June 29, 2003
Dear journal, Michael really surprised me this evening in a nice, nice way. A little yellow cat, one I've never seen before, chose to visit with us on the deck. The surprise is Michael decided to feed it some tuna. It was messy, and I didn't really want him using up my good albacore on a stray cat, but it's so rare to see Michael like that. So I didn't say anything. In fact, I talked to the kitty while she wolfed down my tuna right from the can. I named her Honey Cat because she is the color of honey.
Sunday July 6, 2003
I'm so upset. I don't know what to do. Tell me what you think, dear journal.
This evening started so well. Michael and I were out on the deck as usually, relaxing, looking down on the lawn, and enjoying the evening air. Then Honey Cat showed up looking for a gourmet handout. We have been warned by the landlord about feeding the strays, so her little meows were in vain. We felt really sorry for her. She doesn't understand why we can't feed her anymore. So I talked to her, apologizing, as she kept meowing and rubbing up against Michael's ankle. That's when it happened. Michael leaned over to gently pat the cat mumbling, "I know what to do." Then he slowly slid his hand under her belly, and suddenly I felt really uncomfortable. My throat tightened, and it became difficult for me to cautiously whisper, "What are you doing?" And just like that, Michael lifted her up, held her over the rail, and dropped her.
Then Michael went back into the apartment like nothing happened. I was terrified. I looked over the rail, but Honey Cat wasn't there. I guess that means she's okay. But how could he do that? How could he be so cruel?
Sunday July 13, 2003
Well, my journal, life goes on. I feel I've made tremendous progress in one short month. I am working everyday, and Random House is happy with me again. I keep up with housework, and I remember to write in you every Sunday night.
Michael and I have fallen into a comfortable pattern. I try to make his life a little easier by being there for him every morning. No matter how early, I get out of bed to make his breakfast and to pack him a lunch. It's the least I can do. He, for his part, visits with me in the evenings. I know he's tired, and I know it takes an effort, but he realizes I need the attention. He truly values me. Tonight he brought me flowers. I was so moved by the romantic gesture on his part, that I had the sudden impulse to please him, his favorite, mine too, I suppose, by going down on him. I moved swiftly when he stepped out on the deck. I threw myself at his feet and nuzzled his crotch as I unzipped his trousers. He practically purred and his big lovely penis quickly stood up rigid and ready. It had been a few weeks and my mouth was hungry for it. He wrapped his fingers in my long hair and began to rhythmically pull my head onto his thrusting cock. We knew the routine so well. He is so skillful in fucking my face that I expect more when he puts it in my ass. Never as good there. He really likes head better and makes more of an effort. He says my ass is too loose and too lubricated to give him the same level of stimulation. Fortunately, I like to give head. I wish he would do it for me. There is a girl at the market who comes on to me every time I shop there. I wonder if she eats pussy. Maybe my long lonely days can be an opportunity to explore her intentions, if she still seems interested. A quick kiss in the back of the store might give her some ideas. I look forward to my next shopping trip. Maybe I won't wear panties and she can kiss me where it counts. I thought about all that while Michael grunted and filled my mouth with cum. I swallowed like the good wife that I am, before starting to cook dinner. Yes, life in the country is going to be good, I can tell.