Topic: The Object of Her Affection

She didn’t know when, or how it had happened. She only knew that it was slow and insidious, like a creeping rot or a cancer. All she knew is that one day she was no longer in love; that the object of her affection was now just… an object. A nameless, soulless thing that held no more meaning than a discarded cigarette butt on the sidewalk. As she stood on the street, wrapped in a blanket, watching the fire consume the last of the house she used to love, all she could feel was relief that it was all over.

The Beginning

It began with a spark; a tiny mote of blue light emanating from the tips of her fingers as she flipped the light switch in the living room. The spark that sent chills up her spine and alerted her to the vibrant & beautiful soul housed within the plaster and lathe walls.

 It wasn’t the biggest house, or even the best looking on the block. In fact, it was actually a little run down, with a slight lean to the right. It also had a leak in the basement, the roof was in desperate need of replacement, and all of the windows were warped and drafty.

 Despite its flaws, the house had a strange and captivating effect on her. When she first walked in, with the realtor, she immediately felt loved and protected. It was as if the house were embracing her, enveloping her in its many rooms.

Throughout the tour, the house spoke to her. “Choose me,” it said, as she inspected the large kitchen “I will feed and nurture you.”

“I’ll keep you comfortable and warm.” It crooned, as she wandered the large master bedroom.

 As she was leaving, the sunlight sparkled off the windows giving them a mischievous twinkle, as if the house were showing its wicked, playful side.

 The house captured her imagination and she found herself thinking about it at odd points during the day. She was overcome with images of massaging tung oil into the wooden banisters, caressing the downspouts as she removed leaves from the gutters, and lovingly polishing the brass sconces – a holdover from when the house lights ran on gas.

 The house, Andrew, was priced way outside of her budget, yet she knew he had to be hers. He had been on the market for almost a year so, with some deft negotiating, she was able to get him for less than the asking price. With some creative accounting she was able to afford the mortgage payments without resorting to an all ramen diet.

It was done. He was hers.

The Middle

In those first few years he did, indeed, feed and nurture her. He also kept her safe, comfortable and warm. For her part, she did, indeed, massage tung oil into his bannisters, caress the downspouts, and lovingly polish his sconces.

She also replaced his drafty windows and leaking roof. She covered his peeling exterior with siding, and brightened his interior with paint and wallpaper. With each repair and upgrade she discovered something new about him and loved him even more.

She would fantasize about him while she was at work; counting the hours until she could return to him. Each night, she rushed through the front door and embraced his first floor banister, showering it with kisses.

Her favorite space, in his vast interior, was the large, front, master bedroom. Painted, carpeted, arranged, and decorated to her exact specifications, that room became her haven within a haven. It was the space where she and Andrew could be intimate, both physically and spiritually. It was where she shared her body and her dreams with him.

For years it was her and Andrew against the world. When friends and family lamented her living alone, she would always smile, secure in the knowledge that she had someone special waiting at home for her.

That someone special was home to her.

For years she was blissfully happy within the haven of Andrew’s walls…

Until, one day, she wasn’t.

The End

At first it was little things. Things that, in and of themselves, were innocent enough. But, taken as a whole, became a big, red flag signaling trouble in paradise.

There was the racoon that found its way into the attic crawl space. It had wreaked havoc for days as it scraped across her bedroom ceiling and chewed on electrical wires. Even after removal, extermination, and repairs, it had taken weeks for her to reclaim her space.

There was the thermostat that stopped working on the coldest day of the year. As she sat shivering in her normally-warm living room, all she could think about was warmer climates where furnaces and thermostats were distant dreams.

Although she had been through rough times with Andrew before, these times somehow seemed different. She found herself watching home and garden shows, wishing that Andrew could be more like the houses on the programs. If only that window weren’t there, if only he were brick instead of wood, if only…

She found her eyes wandering to for sale signs and realtors’ descriptions of newer houses, larger houses… better houses.

It ended the way it began – with a spark. A tiny mote of blue light running along the antiquated knob and tube wiring that lurked within the plaster and lathe walls.

In may ways she was lucky. It happed in the middle of the day, while she was awake and downstairs, rather than the middle of the night. And, most importantly, her insurance was all paid up.

She had also learned a valuable lesson about running the vacuum cleaner and microwave at the same time.

As breakups went, it could have gone smoother. But she felt an immense sense of bittersweet freedom now that it was all over.