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
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: http://wigleaf.com/200902peace.htm
Photo detail on main page courtesy
Read KD's story, "Soap," from the archive.
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