Lent

Blanche was bent over the spinner like she was in the midst of performing neurosurgery. "Blanche," Anita said softly (noting the eyebrows were furrowed, the eyes themselves glassy but fierce). "Blanche," she said again. Claire set her wool carding aside, rose, and walked over to her friend. "BLANCHE, COME BACK TO US," she commanded (near to the ear). Blanche shook her head, returning to an awareness of the room, color rising in her cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she said (bleary), "did you need something?" "Yes, we need something," Anita responded. "We need our spinner to not die on the wheel; please take regular breaths and eat a cucumber sandwich." They all laughed, and Blanche did as she was told, pushing away from the work and forcing her shoulders down. "I've really challenged myself for Lent," she explained as tea was served. "I wanted to go deep into a feeling of sacrifice, but it's put me at loose ends; there's nowhere else for my intellectual fascination and obsessive tendencies to go. I seize onto any small task and go at it like I'm dismantling a bomb." "Oh, dear," Anita and Claire reacted (in unison). "What did you give up?" "Murder," Blanche whispered, "and I think it was a mistake, but ... I also think that I can make it to April." "I don't know why you did that to yourself," Claire comforted, patting her friend's arm. "Honestly, you're a wonderful person."