A Vignette In Search Of A Plot

So here's an attempt of mine at writing fiction - there's not much in the way of plot, really - but please read it anyway, and constructive criticism will be much appreciated.

(There's not even a title yet, actually!)

She awoke, warm under the blankets, to a few moments of blessed respite before cold grief wrapped around her heart again. She shuddered and tried to burrow deeper into the warm pile, but to no avail; memory, tenacious and unforgiving, would not let her rest. Nothing for it then, but to get out of bed and face the day – no matter how cold the tiles are no matter we’re almost out of toothpaste no matter I want to do nothing but weep – abruptly, she swung out of bed and walked to the bathroom. “We are almost out of toothpaste,” she noted, as she stumbled about the bathroom, toes curling in the cold. Suddenly, it hit her, as it had done almost hourly for a month now – that there was no we anymore. There was no more Jim and Lauren now; it was just her, standing in a cold bathroom, blinking hard to stop the tears that would wash her away again. The floods receded, and she was left holding on the sides of the basin, wondering what Jim would say to the pale face staring back at her from the mirror. Sweetheart, you know I love you, but the creature of the night look is not for you. So why don’t you go outside, get a tan? I’d come too, you know, but this whole death business is keeping me busy. She splashed water on her face and once again took stock of her reflection. Look. You had a life before Jim and you’ll get by without him. Turning on her heel, she left the bathroom, ignoring the inner voice wailing that it didn’t want to get by.

In the kitchen, she poured herself some cereal and began to eat. The cereal was Jim’s favourite – he’d stockpiled cartons of it, saying, look, what if they decide to stop making this brand? Seeing Lauren’s skeptical glance, he’d continued, honey, there are three things I cannot live without – hockey, this cereal, and you. She’d retorted that if he thought putting her on the same level with a food product was a compliment, he ought to reconsider his priorities, but in the end, she’d relented. Now, alone in the kitchen he’d never gotten around to painting, she felt the grief and anger make a fresh onslaught. He’d lied, hadn’t he? The hockey season is still on, they’re still making this stupid cereal, I’m here, and he’s not. I hate that he’s gone. I hate that I’m alone and I hate people sympathizing and I miss him so much – and she found herself once again putting a brake on her train of thoughts. Enough wallowing in grief, she thought, I’ve done enough of that already. In the weeks right after his – right after that happened, she’d done nothing but cry and read poetry and cry some more. The poetry of grief had, in a strange way, served to comfort her, for it meant that other people had felt loss like hers and had survived. And yet, she mused, no one poet had captured grief completely; it was like the story of the blind men and the elephant. So I’ve been wrestling an elephant for the past month? No wonder I look like shit. The thought made her smile, but the ringing of the doorbell left her no time to ponder how strange and traitorous it was to be smiling again.

“Who, who, who could that be?” she wondered as she walked to the door. Are we – fuck, fuck, I meant, am I expecting someone? Before she put her hand on the doorknob, she heard her sister’s voice, “Lauren! It’s Meg! I’ve got coffee, donuts and a bunch of things with lotsa sugar in ’em!” Of course - Meg! Her sister made a point of calling to check on her every other day, and had visited her every Saturday morning since – and it wasn’t just her; their parents checked in on Lauren as well, bringing food as offering to appease the hungry grief that ate at her. As she unlocked the door, it came to her that all these visits had done little to assuage her sorrow. Hers was a private torture – she could not explain to anyone the bitterness of her solitude, and neither would she wish such an understanding on a soul. Without Jim, she felt alone even in a room full of family and friends, as she had at the funeral. She had sat there, dressed in a black dress her mother had found for her, and all the sincerely-meant condolences and sympathies had buzzed dully in her ears as she stared at the coffin that – but her fumbling fingers finally managed to undo the locks, and she pulled the door open. Meg barged in, hands full with gifts of caffeine and sugar and Lauren relieved her of the dangerously tottering packages. They sat in the kitchen in silence, sipping their coffee, until Meg blurted, “This is weird, huh?” Lauren froze. Did her sister have no tact? Of course things were weird, her husband was dead! Before she could open her mouth to yell, Meg continued, “look, we’re in a house, with china and all that, and we’re still drinking our coffee out of paper cups. Tell me that’s not weird?” Weird is where this conversation almost went, Lauren thought, but aloud, all she said was, “The mugs are in the cabinet next to the fridge, if you want them.” Her sister didn’t get up, though, and Lauren shot her an inquiring look. Meg shrugged. “Eh, I don’t want to have to do any washing up. I’ll just, you know, have to live with the weirdness.” Lauren shrugged in return. “Suit yourself. Where’d you get these donuts, anyway?”

As Meg plunged into an animated description of the oh-so-divine bakery she’d stumbled onto just a few blocks away, Lauren could tell that Meg was grateful for the conversational lifeline. Her sister had never been able to handle awkward silences; she had always been the one to break the arctic quiet that was the aftermath of one of their parents’ fights with a silly joke, or an anecdote about a friend, or even the latest sports news. It was, therefore, a perfectly Meg thing to be sitting there and babbling about the wonderful black forest cake at this new find of hers – wait a minute. “Hold on a sec, Meg – you hate black forest cake!” Meg grinned. “So you were paying attention, huh?” Lauren rolled her eyes, and got up. “My anti-Meg filter must be malfunctioning,” she said with the ends of her lips twitching upwards.

(And that's it. Read, Review, Rant - all of the above would be appreciated. thanks!)