Scribe the Woman

"Greer, is everything okay?" Mrs. Shade asked. She studied her daughter as she buttered her toast. They sat at the kitchen table enjoying their breakfast before Mrs. Shade went to work, and before Greer enjoyed another day of her school break. 

This was a normal home.

The kitchen was washed with morning light. Birdsong punctuated the silence between silverware pinging off of porcelain plates. Cars rolled past the upturned windows. Pedestrians padded down the sidewalk. The church bell rang. 

"I feel empty," Greer muttered. 

"That's normal, honey," replied her mother. She was focused on evening out the spread to all four corners instead of noticing how pale Greer had gotten, or the rings under her eyes. 

"No, Mom," Greer said. She looked up from her plate.  Mrs. Shade blinked at her.

 "This is a different empty," said Greer. 

Mrs. Shade’s shoulders tensed. Her tongue rolled behind her cheek. She exhaled through her nose as tossed her toast on the plate, cleaned the knife, and intersected the plate with it, the serrated blade pointed in her direction. Greer shifted in her seat. She watched as Mrs. Shade reclined in her wooden chair across from her, her stained lips pursed.

Mrs. Shade said, "A ‘different’ empty?" 

She templed her manicured fingers together and pressed her lips against the steeple, eyes staring at Greer like a sentinel. 

This was a normal house.