Katrina Denza

She lies in the living room under twisted blankets. Fever spins her mind: chromatic spirals. Outside her window, snowflakes churn.

He's home in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of jobs, in the middle of his own life. From the sofa, she watches him sit at the kitchen table, pour wheat flakes in a bowl, then milk, sugar. When he eats he looks down at his bowl.

Bowl empty, he gathers his coat, his gloves, waves vaguely in her direction.

She sings to his back, There ain't no time to wonder why, whoopee! we're all gonna die.

On his way out, he hesitates with one hand on the crystal knob, cocks his head as if he's heard something then walks through the French doors, out into the snow.

She sits up. Watches his figure diminish, diminish, on the other side of the glass. But it's not her husband, it's just some man, some guy she doesn't know, disappearing into the swirling white. She wonders where he's headed. He didn't even tell her his name.

Katrina Denza's stories can be found in New Delta Review, Parting Gifts, SmokeLong Quarterly, RE:AL, Confrontation, Passages North, elimae, Wigleaf and others.

To link to this story directly:

Photo detail on main page courtesy of ronnie44052.

Read KD's story, "Soap," from the archive.

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