Ana sits every day at the window, braiding her hair and staring out to the ancient moors that creep up on our manse. Ana sits by the window, winding fingers between strands and guiding them into intricate plaits that every day prove more challenging than the next. Ana, every day, stares out the window and I am left to my own devices in the salon.
This is not what I was promised marriage would be. With no conversation of any kind to be awarded to me from my wife, all I have are thoughts.
Ana, every day sits at the window, winding her own thoughts between the strands of her hair. My thoughts leave the salon and fly through the window.
Every day, I see Ana at that window. Every day I think about it; I think to myself how simple it would be to step up to her, put my arms around her, and push her out the window.
Ana, every day, flies through that window through a hundred different circumstances in my mind, every one a slight variation on the day at hand.
I, every day, run my hands through my hair, trying to stop myself.
But, Ana, one day, will fall.