My stories. Story for estrangement #4

Story for estrangement

Although trivial, let's say it once more - the owner has become a function of the ownership. If Shakespeare has said that "life is a scene and we are all actors in it," then for the present state of the people, the following reproach can be noted: man is a scene and objects are the actors in it. In every family, in every conversation, in every action, the object has seized power positions. I'll tell a case of my life going on for 80 years on this empty land, as Thomas Eliot would have said and the moment when I realized how much I depended on things. One rainy day my sock tore. I did not know what to do, as any real man would do in such a situation, I complained to my wife. She calmed me, took the hooks and began to patch it. I do not understand such things, I am a man of spirit, but she attributed a lot of time to my sock. She obviously wanted to make the perfect patch. Stoically I waited. Time was flying like a suicide jumped from high - fast and unhealthy. I felt like I was beginning to get cold. I asked her anxiously if she was ready. Knitting was her sacred area, and she told me to close my old mouth if I ever wanted the sock to be back on my feet again. I sneezed in consensus and my temperature raised. The evening came. I sat down on the chair across and stared at her, my sock and their shared connection. Whether or not I began to lose my mind due to the raised temperature, but I thought that she had never given herself to me so much, like she did to my sock at that moment. You'll probably think of me as crazy, but I'll say it, I'm jealous of it. I had to take things in my own hands. I stood up and told her majesticly, "Woman, you overdid it!" She did not pay attention to it, and I continued even more desperately: "I know, I did not care enough for you, but it will be different from now, I realized how much I appreciate you." For a moment she stopped. Apparently a thought went in her mind by shaping my image in it, not that of the sock. I triumphed. She told me she was doing the last patch and would give it to me. Happy as a little kid, I went to her to kiss her, but unfortunately, the storm outside stopped the electricity. It was complete darkness. What now? What to do? I sneezed. In reply, she stroked me like a real grandmother and told me that tomorrow when I wake up, my sock will be like a new one. I did not wake up. In front of my grave she stood as a stranger and continued to knit the sock. I lost. There was no way I could fight for her heart and win it again.