Her Particular Predilection

It was apparent from early on that she would be one of those types. Blessed with the familial wealth to afford the accoutrement of each hobby, the requisite purchases and go-alongs, though too excitable to ever follow through and become exemplary or professional. The bespoke, hand-carved doll house she asked for one year at Christmas which, by March, sat languishing in the attic. The paint beautiful and glimmering in the spring light, it was untouched for decades after. The leather harness and jodhpurs, the Arabian mare she took lessons on for a year then left to sit in his stall, eating up money and suffering from arthritic joints. The private rural college education. That half of a decade she spent outdoors, finding herself among the forests and slopes of the nearby towns. Classes left empty, teachers confused, the spines of her books uncracked and virginal. The degree (self-indulgent and useless anyways) never completed. The ring that she bought in perverse anticipation. No relationship ever consummated, the gold found bare and blank and unused in the house of her choosing. There was the bed, large and ample. Bought in hopes of achieving a decent, refreshing rest. She immediately developed a hopeless insomnia. Nights spent at the dinner table rereading the day’s news over endless cups of tea. Finally the coffin, her last hopeful hobby. The extra expense made to have the box bedded and lacquered, her only desire to one day pass away. Alas, her particular predilection proved stronger than death, even here she could not take the purchase to completion. It has gone unused ever since and she has lived forever.

Sam Moss lives in the Pacific Northwest. He is currently working on a novel called Basic Analysis. He is a writer and editor for NADA and blogs at http://perfidiousscript.blogspot.com.

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