Concept Short Story: #1

Well, I suppose it’s a good thing he’s wearing a suit. Thank goodness I ironed it for him - it makes him look fitted, put together. But the way he hunches over, disappearing into the headlines as if I’m not sitting right here. If it was any regular day, I wouldn’t care but today I do. I just go about flattening my dress, flattening the hills and mountain ranges, adjusting the sleeves. How I wish I could still hike up that mountain where we use to camp. But my legs can’t take it. My papery hands just rest in my lap. Has he spoken a word to me this morning?

“Corporate bastards,” he mutters, flipping to the next page of his own Bible, his face unseen, the ink smudging on his wrinkled fingers. The black and white photographs flutter like doves - or crows.

“Language,” I say. Goodness, I hate it when he swears. Why hasn’t he said anything to me? Is this some sort of trick? I will wait patiently, like a cat. There’s no rush, the whole day is lying ahead. “Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?”

“No, there’s no time. I’ve got a viewing at ten,” he says.

“Will you be home for lunch?”

“No I’ve got to pick up a body at the morgue.”

“When will you eat?”

“I’ll pick up something.”

“Well don’t get that McDonalds rubbish. You know the heartburn it gives you.”

He huffs, turns the page. I personify a statue as if I’m waiting for birds to rest on me. Doves and crows rest on opposite sides. I don’t look at him now and his mangled sitting posture. The way he turned the chair toward the sun, the very chair I fixed yesterday. I’ll have to fix it again when he leaves and move it back to the original position.

“Will you be home for dinner at least?”

“I’ll try.”

“Well, I hope you will try very hard.”

“Why? Are you cooking something special?” Something special? WHY? Sometimes he gets me so angry. How can he...Why wouldn’t I make something special? What kind of question is that?

“Of course I am,” I respond, displaying my far from menacing anger. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, flips the page...as if that’s a response. He has no right to be so rude.

“Well, I want you home for dinner and you better be here because I said so,” I blurt with courage, with authority. I am a queen on a throne, covered in jewels and fur.

“Okay,” he says. Just okay, nothing else. There isn’t any expression behind his words. There isn’t an argument. I’d rather him bicker and moan. He’s so undemonstrative. So boring and uncaring.

“Just because you work with dead people doesn’t mean you have to be so unemotional ” I storm out, leaving the living room. I go into the kitchen and put my hands on the counter as if that took a lot out of me. I pretend I am cleaning but I’m just moving things out of place and then putting them back.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and I feel foolish for yelling.

He calls to me, “If you’re really that angry because I’m not eating breakfast, you can fix me a cup of coffee.” He pauses. “If you want. Okay?”

Okay. I despise that word. Where does that derive from anyway? O-K. What country started that? Whoever created it was clearly a man without an impressive variety of vocabulary to express his emotions. ‘Okay, that’s fine.’ ‘Okay, I’ll go to dinner.’ OKAY. It’s so indecisive, so on-the-fence, and I hate it.

“It’ll be done in a couple of minutes. Are you sure you have time?” I say this sounding genuine but I mean to be smart. He knows it, I’m just playing his game. But I put in the coffee filter, a couple cups of ground coffee, water. And then I hit power. I get out a thermos cup with its lid and I wait. I breathe in and out, count to ten, do all those relaxing steps, relaxing my weathered muscles.

There is an ant crawling across the cupboard. I take a napkin, bunch it up and break him. I feel the quiet crunch. I ball up the napkin, toss it in the trash, and call to the dead, impassive man in my living room.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes please. Extra sugar.”

“Not good for you,” I mutter but loud enough for him to hear. I can picture him, silently mimicking me. Breathe. One, two, three...why today? Of all days for him to be difficult – he picked today. What should I do about this? It’ll be on my mind for the rest of the day. I can’t just sit around. I know my role has been that, but it shouldn’t be today. I won’t tolerate this everyday for the rest of my life. When did we become so routinely? When did his emotions leave and flutter out the window and into the obliterating sun? Sometimes I think he did it with the intent to erase what he had. He cupped the dove in his hands like a magician and then went to the window. He released it. There it went.

And this crow, perched on our porch, is settling in. Its moans fill my ears, and its dirty feet step on my flowers. He’s so selfish, so centered around himself. He’s claimed his territory and will be here for too long. Much too long for me to handle his whiny calls.

He is sitting still, reading, reading. He doesn’t understand, he won’t ever. He won’t apologize. What am I to him now? Is my former self just a photograph on a bureau? Is my smile not the smile he looked for? When was the last time he kissed me and felt it? When was the last time he touched me? He touches more dead bodies than he does me. He disgusts me. Damn him.

Stop. Stop it.

This isn’t fair. I won’t live like this. I refuse. I am a queen and he is a peasant. If I was still young, I would make love to another person. I would sneak around, call them, dream about running away with them. But I am old and there is no point. But he will pay. Today will be a different day. It needs to be.

I could poison him. I could put something in his coffee. I have this power over him. I deserve justice. He deserves it. And its not like he enjoys living anymore. He’s so miserable. He sees death everyday, people crying. It wears him down. It’s a solution, that’s all. I’m technically doing him a favor. What do I have in the cupboard?

I open up the cupboard and look around. Wait, what am I doing? Am I going mentally insane? I just contemplated killing him. I justified it. Is this how murderers think? Close the cupboard you crazy.

I close the cupboard and the coffee is almost done. I put my hands on the counter again. I give my legs a rest.

What would happen if I poisoned him? Could it be traced back to me? What would my motives be? Surely, they just can’t assume I did it without a motive. But nowadays they have all this technology. They can find finger prints and they can read minds with machines. I couldn’t lie my way out of a lie detector. But they need a warrant I believe. Would they try? I’m innocent looking. I could plea insanity. Am I insane?

Is this what all minds eventually become? What about lives? We slowly deteriorate, decompose, fall through the cracks and lay there, and just wait there. Did we reach the end point? Did we find the meaning of life and learn all our lessons? The unhappiness is inevitable. There is nothing more for us to do, for us to see. My eyes are so heavy. That’s it, that’s all, the cup is empty and has slowly been emptying.

I reopen the cupboard and my papery hands are shaking. The coffee finishes. It smells like sunlight.

It’s poured into the thermos. I stir it all in, all together. I close my eyes, rest my eyes. Lord, what is wrong with me? Please give me strength.

There is a dove outside my window.