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Description
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation~ Thoreau

She drops her children off at school- two successful happy kids making their way to their separate groups of friends carrying home-made sack lunches. Her soft hair is tied back by a red ribbon.
She goes to the grocery store, tidy list in hand, smiling and humming the song her alarm clock radio played that morning. She gets home and begins to chop fat tomatoes and put them in a pasta salad she serves to ladies joining her for the weekly book discussion; the visitors sip lemonade and compliment her taste in linens.
When they leave she goes into her home office, draws the maroon curtains, sits herself at a top of the line PC and pounds away at the keyboard for a few hours. Eventually she glances at an antique clock and goes into the kitchen; she turns on the radio and pulls some white shrimp out of the refrigerator to thaw before she makes them blush in scampi.
She grabs her keys and gets into a crimson BMW and heads to her childrens' school. The toll bell sounds and students poor out of the brick building, two of which are her own smiling kids. They wade to the car and she takes them home where she helps them with homework. By now they have multiple teachers and the work load is substantial- tonight algebra is on the menu and U.S. history. Once they’re well on their way she leaves them to finish and begins to prepare the gorgeous dinner.
The children play well until after their bedtimes (as usual) and finally she herds them to bed, tucking them into fluffy sheets, still depicting the cowboys strutting rusty bandanas that they liked when they were nine. She goes back to the kitchen and family room to clean.

The night is well under way, the only suns visible now are hundreds of light years away. She uncorks a bottle of deep red wine, its pungent smell reaching a human's nose for the first time since 1989. She takes out one of her nice glasses and falls into the big couch in the living room. Next to the couch is an end table where, after filling her glass, she sets the bottle of deep red wine. Next to the bottle is an antique phone. She picks up the receiver and then closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and sets it down.
A few hours pass and the phone remains silent. A few times she picks it up, at long last she dials a number, but there's no answer on the other end. She pours herself yet another glass of deep, red wine. Her eyes are dry and her ruby lipstick wore off long ago, revealing the cracked lips beneath. She leans her head on the arm of the couch and looks longingly up at the antique phone, embarrassed that she cannot seem to pull herself away from its side and simply give up and go to bed. All she can do is take another sip from her glass. The minutes tick by, the house is silent until a morning bird sounds and her eyes flutter open, its not even dawn yet, her glass lies tipped over on the floor. The carpet isn't stained because the glass was empty when it fell from her unconscious hand. The red ribbon in her hair has come loose and lies in the couch, her hair feels limp and flimsy.
She decides to go put the bottle away and wash out her glass.

Description
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation~ Thoreau

She drops her children off at school- two successful happy kids making their way to their separate groups of friends carrying home-made sack lunches. Her soft hair is tied back by a red ribbon.
She goes to the grocery store, tidy list in hand, smiling and humming the song her alarm clock radio played that morning. She gets home and begins to chop fat tomatoes and put them in a pasta salad she serves to ladies joining her for the weekly book discussion; the visitors sip lemonade and compliment her taste in linens.
When they leave she goes into her home office, draws the maroon curtains, sits herself at a top of the line PC and pounds away at the keyboard for a few hours. Eventually she glances at an antique clock and goes into the kitchen; she turns on the radio and pulls some white shrimp out of the refrigerator to thaw before she makes them blush in scampi.
She grabs her keys and gets into a crimson BMW and heads to her childrens' school. The toll bell sounds and students poor out of the brick building, two of which are her own smiling kids. They wade to the car and she takes them home where she helps them with homework. By now they have multiple teachers and the work load is substantial- tonight algebra is on the menu and U.S. history. Once they’re well on their way she leaves them to finish and begins to prepare the gorgeous dinner.
The children play well until after their bedtimes (as usual) and finally she herds them to bed, tucking them into fluffy sheets, still depicting the cowboys strutting rusty bandanas that they liked when they were nine. She goes back to the kitchen and family room to clean.

The night is well under way, the only suns visible now are hundreds of light years away. She uncorks a bottle of deep red wine, its pungent smell reaching a human's nose for the first time since 1989. She takes out one of her nice glasses and falls into the big couch in the living room. Next to the couch is an end table where, after filling her glass, she sets the bottle of deep red wine. Next to the bottle is an antique phone. She picks up the receiver and then closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and sets it down.
A few hours pass and the phone remains silent. A few times she picks it up, at long last she dials a number, but there's no answer on the other end. She pours herself yet another glass of deep, red wine. Her eyes are dry and her ruby lipstick wore off long ago, revealing the cracked lips beneath. She leans her head on the arm of the couch and looks longingly up at the antique phone, embarrassed that she cannot seem to pull herself away from its side and simply give up and go to bed. All she can do is take another sip from her glass. The minutes tick by, the house is silent until a morning bird sounds and her eyes flutter open, its not even dawn yet, her glass lies tipped over on the floor. The carpet isn't stained because the glass was empty when it fell from her unconscious hand. The red ribbon in her hair has come loose and lies in the couch, her hair feels limp and flimsy.
She decides to go put the bottle away and wash out her glass.