Excerpt from Suburban Fire, a longer short story I’ve had in the works ….
Surrounded by hedges properly pruned and a lawn emulating the brilliant shade of emerald, their home on Parkers Ave. stood as a dignitary among the unkempt strays littering their neighborhood. All of the women on Parkers Ave. held positions of modest employment where their talents went underpaid and disrespected, thus their dwellings suffered from a lack of attention and the surface details of happy, healthy marriages went overlooked. Again, all of the women on Parkers Ave. worked, all with the exception of Sandra, who made the tasks about her home her profession. Painted a quaint honey-suckle yellow, the same shade of honey that had once soaked the bedroom walls encapsulating her adolescent memories, her home was her trophy, the fixture of fulfillment, the symbol of self-actualization that people spend their entire lives hunting for amidst individualization. Though she was alone in this ache of satisfaction, for Sandra had lost all of her friends to feminism long ago, she simply refused to loosen the ties of her apron. As a woman, she felt as though she had it all; the adorably humble abode, the loving husband and the Kitchen-aid appliances that fostered her artistry. To Sandra, these were the pieces that made a woman.