The Wife

She holds out a blue cup. You want some tea? Her other hand scratches her itching eyes.

Supper's almost ready—do you want something to drink?

No.

Creatures live in the cold fireplace.

Supper will be done in a minute. She stirs a pot on the stove.

The cups are behind the cupboard door that never closes all the way. The cups aren't really clean in there. Cheap lace curtains hang over the kitchen windows. She once thought they were pretty—now they simply hang there. 

He sits in a chair by the front door. The door's open and the sun's behind the trees. Big clouds roll far away and summer birds pick through the grass and he's smoking a cigarette watching the far-off clouds. 

She turns the food off and wipes the palms of her hands on her pants. 

Takes a broom that's in the corner of the kitchen. 

Goes to the living room and sweeps the floor.

Looks quickly at him to make sure it's okay for her to sweep the floor.

He doesn't look back and she sweeps. Watches the dust rise from her broom and move like tiny fairies in the air. An arm of light falls through the window. She stops to watch the little specks of fairy light then looks through it and into the silent fireplace. Knowing he's not watching her, she secretly looks for the strange animals to peek from the old ash in the fireplace. Little things hide behind dry spiderwebs and charred wood in there—furry small bouncing creatures that laugh and become afraid sometimes. Thats all they do. And eat—they like to eat crumbs from the floor when the giants are sleeping.

A good wind comes through the door and blows through the black dust in the fireplace—still they don't come out. She bends over low and almost calls for them but he finishes his cigarette and rises from his chair. She quickly stands up straight and hides behind her sweeping. He doesn't know about the creatures in there, that man.

That man with the pitted face and dry hair. That man with eyes that move quickly sometimes and frighten her. That man with rough hair on his arms and dirty hands—hands with skin like dry-rotted leather that break open and bleed. That man whose footsteps fall heavy when he walks by—she moves her broom and steps back from him as he passes. The air that drifts from him smells like lake water on an animal. 

The dust she's swept rises up and follows him. He doesn't speak a word to her, passes wordlessly by. He goes into the bedroom and leaves the door open behind him. She knows to follow.

She leans her broom against the wall. She kneels down quietly and crawls on her hands and knees to the dark fireplace. She pokes her head into the blackness to see if the ashy animals are stirring further back inside there—they are not. Where have you been, you silly animals, she silently asks. Where have you been?

A soft thunder rumbles far away. Outside the front door birds scramble hollering and chasing one another.

She stands back up, wipes her hands on her knees and goes to him.

She lays on the bed beside him. Closes her eyes and he unbuttons her clothes—wind blows through the house and over both of their bodies. Blackness behind her eyelids and bells ring in her head.His beaten hands touch her and his mouth breathes on her. When her eyes open again she sees the most beautiful man alive.