She watched the ink dry.
The morning linens were washed and sorted, the breakfast made, eaten, and cleaned up. There was even time to polish the silver candelabra, scrub the foyer's floors, and tackle that behemoth of a task: the office. Her husband insist it to be his office, but as far as she could tell, an office of his was merely a space to enjoy a night's wine. The smell of the dust and aged walls could only be stomached for so long, hence why her husband only ever seemed to be in there long enough to make a mess. If it were not to be his office, then it must be hers.
She coughed on the dust. She wasn't done with the office--really, she was not even a third way through the labor. Thinking of her husband just then made her focus on the letter in front of her, its poetic lyrics of longing and dissatisfaction dry and impeccably legible. Thinking of the time she spent today, her thoughts brought her back to this office, to her letter, to her husband. It didn't feel quite right, suddenly. To call him her husband, or better yet, she his wife. It's all semantics. Language of possession is inherently troubling when it comes to relationships... Much in the way it can be troubling for this office.
No, it wasn't her office at all. She never spent any longer in it than to be told to stop prying by her husband, or worse yet, her mother-in-law. Oh, bugger that beast. It seemed pathetic, suddenly, to finally realize what she already knew since the engagement, though it seemed now even more pathetic to realize you don't even own anything in your own home--not even the husband. How can anyone wake everyday in a reality that is not theirs, not for themselves?
It was easier to lie and accuse him of some adulterous affair. The scandal would be wounding, but there was social capital to be made. Oh, the sympathy the husband will receive from the spinsters and thrice-debuted debutantes. They'll fawn over him, coo and purr over that prestigious family name. They'll slinker into his bed and have warm buns ready in the morning. Like hounds with the slightest whiff of steak, they'll pounce. There was no material jealousy, or any real reason for it in her heart, she knew. She felt unnerved suddenly. She took pause to wonder why she suddenly felt no ownership over a man she never had wanted in the first place. To be jealous of your own fabrication, how twisted. Oh wait, what of the office? She never wanted the office anyway.
Her hand jolted forward suddenly. She stood, craned over the desk as she mindlessly thumbed the page over, folding it in thirds. She was doing it again. It was that thing, that wandering of her thoughts that always paused her at the most absurd times. It was the same reason she suddenly found time for the day's chores ahead of this letter, ahead of her time in her office. She told the husband's mother it's a day of summer cleaning. Where did he keep the wax, his seal? Nevermind, why edify such cheap paper with wax "... Only to be used in business correspondence!"
The thick woolen curtain reached for her, the salted voice of the ocean's breeze calling her name through the window. She left the desk and delicately lifted the curtain to peek out at the sea. Everyday, at this time, the midday fog rolled from the bay of the archipelago and east towards their home on the coasts of Calemberg. The great grey wall was still long away, blending in the distance with the overcast sky. The daily wind that carried the fog midday was a feature of everyone's day along the shore and through the town. It was cold--dangerous and all too mysterious to ever fish in. Fishermen traditionally take back to shore at the arrival of the fog, counting it as a day's natural lunch break. Soon, the fog would come and go, and the sea would be ripe for plunder without worry of superstition. Far from the cliff shore, down and past the rocky beach was a single rowboat, sporting two figures with their backs to her and their faces to the lethargic fog. Odd they remained. In thinking of the fog, she cast her gaze back to that distant wall and thought of its song. Yes, it always sang for her--sang of an optimistic future, a mystery that simply cannot remain unsolved. It whispered secrets of people and worlds that are hidden within the mundane pages of history texts. It carried the smell of a filthy city and gave the chilled sting of a another night spent in rags on the streets.
She opened her eyes. Beyond the glass were only grey streaks whipping pass the panes, obscuring the once encompassing view. The curtain whipped her, and the sudden sharp breeze stinged. She promptly shut the window. She stiffened, remembering the fishermen. Craning her neck forward, she pressed her nose against the fogged and cold glass for but a moment before a distant flicker of lantern bobbed with the motion of the waves.
Satisfied, she turned back to the desk. Dissatisfied, she carefully walked away from the desk and out of the office. In the time it'd take the husband to enjoy a beer in the dusty office, she had her coat and a single knapsack on her back. Flinging the front door open, she jumped into the fog.
