Elsmore - Every Five Minutes
Here you can read online Elsmore - Every Five Minutes full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2011, publisher: Flaxroots Productions, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:
Romance novel
Science fiction
Adventure
Detective
Science
History
Home and family
Prose
Art
Politics
Computer
Non-fiction
Religion
Business
Children
Humor
Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.
- Book:Every Five Minutes
- Author:
- Publisher:Flaxroots Productions
- Genre:
- Year:2011
- Rating:5 / 5
- Favourites:Add to favourites
- Your mark:
Every Five Minutes: summary, description and annotation
We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Every Five Minutes" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.
Elsmore: author's other books
Who wrote Every Five Minutes? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Every Five Minutes — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work
Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Every Five Minutes" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.
Font size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
Every Five Minutes
Bronwyn Elsmore
Bronwyn Elsmore, 2011.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of fair reviewing.
Every Five Minutes is a work of fiction, any resemblance between the characters and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9922491-0-6
www.flaxroots.com
I think of you, you said, every five minutes.
What? I asked. Every five minutes throughout the day? Or every five minutes you happen to think of it?
Every five minutes of every day.
What about at night, when youre sleeping? I pressed you, laughing, because even though I didnt believe what you were saying, it was a close moment and I wanted it to continue. It was new to me, to have a man being so open about his feelings.
Probably. When Im asleep Im not conscious so I cant be certain. But I expect I do. I hope I do.
I reached for the glasses that were lying on the bench between us and placed them on the tip of my nose, inclining my head so I could peer over the rims. With my right index finger poised to take notes on the imaginary pad of my other hand, I asked you,
Tell me, Mr Chipzenburger, how long has this been going on?
Ever since I got to know you.
That long!"
And how long do you expect it to last?
Forever, I hope.
Forever is a long time.
My eyes are still shut. I know that when I open them the grey I see through my closed lids will lighten only a shade.
The day ahead, I think as I lie here, promises to be overcast with sudden showers. Much like yesterday, the day before that, and every one for the past thirteen. Yet outside the window I hear the sounds of a day with more promise mild and still warm as Auckland usually is in April and I know that when I do rise and open the curtains the sun will be shining across the patio at the back of the house, and on the planter with the seedlings of antirrhinum and stock you planted fifteen days ago. Colour and scent, you said, for the winter to come.
Then I feel your soft kiss brush my lips, gently oh so gently, and your voice in my ear saying Good morning darling. I turn over and reach out for you.
There is nothing, you once said, like the smell of a wet dog.
At the time I agreed with you, but my concurrence was not on grounds in any way similar to yours, as you picked from my tone. You were relating the idea to activities like mock fights over a rope or rubber ring on the beach, games of fetch on damp grass, and a grateful lick from a freshly bathed dog as it stepped from the tub. My thoughts were of flying drops from a vigorous post-swim shaking, of mud-covered rough hair, or wet paw-prints across a carpet. Whatever the cause, a dog was something to be kept at a safe distance over the neighbours fence at the closest, definitely not within sniffing and leaping range.
But now a distinctive odour reaches me from close at hand. Not wet, certainly canine, familiar. I bring my hand from beneath the covers and touch soft springy hair.
Hello, girl, I say.
I continue to lie here. Perhaps Ill stay here all day, keeping you beside me.
Theres nothing, Id like better, I hear you say, but its back to work for you.
I resist, but I know youll win. Much as I wish you werent, youre always right on occasions like this.
Even so, I push it further. Tony and Melissa will be handling everything. They dont need me. In fact, maybe Ill leave them to it for good. Permanently. Ill never go back.
Theres no response from you. Theres no need, I feel your thoughts. The silence lets me know my ravings are irrational. I lie still for another minute, accepting your judgement and willing myself to move. It takes a mammoth effort but I pull back the duvet and put my feet on the carpet.
I flip up the handle on the shower mixer to make the water flow, and step into the cubicle. I train the flow onto the right side of my neck where I feel the spasm and let the warmth seep into the taut muscle.
Even though I showered last night before bed, I want the feel of warm water running down my body from top to toe, soothing, calming. It has always been this way for me. More than just removing dirt and bacteria, a shower is cleansing in other than physical ways washing away unwanted thoughts, freshening the mind, therapeutic.
The first time you saw me emerge from the bathroom, the morning after we stayed together for the first time, you said I looked happy.
Did I hear you singing? you asked.
Im sorry, I replied, I wont do it again.
You laughed and took me in your arms.
I want you to sing.
You might regret you said that, Mr Chipzenburger.
Never, Mrs Chipzenburger, you replied.
With the door of the wardrobe slid right back, I stand looking at the hanging clothes trying to decide what to wear. I gaze without seeing for some moments, then I shake my head to bring myself out of my morning stupor and reach out. My hand goes to my cornflower blue dress. Its probably not a good choice.
For one thing, its not the best weight for the early autumn day I see outside the window. Another, more pressing, consideration is that Ill be expected to wear something rather more subdued. Darker, a more executive look suited to mid city. After all, I usually do, and why would I change that now.
With those thoughts in mind I move my hand to the left, onto the shoulder of a charcoal suit but it doesnt stay there. It moves right back to the blue silk-cotton. I try again, this time aiming for my navy pantsuit, but my hand resists. My head and my emotions engage in a short battle, with my hand wavering while it waits to see which wins. In a moment of contrary thought I force the issue and go with my feelings. The day is already defined as dismal, and expectations can be overcome. Today the cornflower blue is what I need. I can team it with a coat to keep out the chill of the day.
Theres still a tightness in my neck as I move my head. As I stretch, and turn my face to the right and left in turn, theres a grating thats more unnerving than painful. The sharpness of the spasm that was there on waking has been alleviated somewhat by the heat of the water, but the memory of it remains.
You must remember youre a princess, you say in my left ear.
I dont want to listen because I know what you will say makes sense and its not reason that I need to hear right now. Thats probably why you persist.
If you can feel a pea through a mattress, how can you manage with something that size under your pillow.
Youre right again, damn you. Mark, my remarkable man who always almost always knows whats best for me. What would I do without you?
I prepare Electras bowl and put it on the kitchen floor in its customary spot. She looks at me and lifts her head in what I interpret to be a gesture of thanks before she settles to eat. Its as though this has always been our practice instead of a fairly new thing.
The first time you were away for a few days I was nervous. You laughed away my fears. You dont have to baby-sit her, you assured me. On the contrary, she was under orders to look after me. All I had to do was open the bag and ladle out her food.
On that occasion, and at subsequent times you were away, she and I established our routine thanks, Im sure, to her equable and forgiving nature. So much like you.
Font size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
Similar books «Every Five Minutes»
Look at similar books to Every Five Minutes. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.
Discussion, reviews of the book Every Five Minutes and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.