loose thread.

[Carin Cryderman]

She arrived alone, careful to avoid his glance as she joined him on the bench.  The clerk called their names and escorted them to the courtroom; it felt clinical and routine, like a doctor appointment.  When the judge read the names and birth dates of their daughters, she focused her attention on a loose thread, still attached to her pants, and wrapped it tightly around her finger.  With the beat of a gavel, fourteen years ended in twelve minutes.  She picked up her purse, followed him across the hall, and waited for the judgment of divorce while another couple waited for their marriage license.  And then, she walked back to work.

[Edward Dean]

You write this with the precision of a surgeons knife; clean cutting and cold. It's a wow!

[Kristine_ES]

this is one of those things that get me. how things can change so drastically, in the space of a gavel, a heartbeat, an hour.

and in that same space, things are going one way like south to divorce or up heavenward to marriage...

and either way, we're both walking back to work. what a life, eh?

[Carin Cryderman]

Funny, I had never even made the symbolic connection of the loose thread.  Thank you for commenting.

[Jeanette Cheezum]

You did a great job describing how things take place while the world continues on it's daily routine.

[Ron. Lavalette]

Every minute, no matter how momentous, is minute.

[Stephen Torelli]

Yes, the thread is the signature of this well-defined account. 

[Angela]

Have to agree with Galen regarding the thread, and the rest of his comment, too.

[Bill Floyd]

Very precise.  The language & emotional impact are to be admired, even if the situation is rough.  

[Diana E. Backhouse]

I like the way you have put divorce and marriage, in that order, into one sentence. It gives a feeling of what goes around, comes around!