The house smells of baking, the scent of promise, a delivery into better lands. What’s the occasion? he asks. But she dare not tell him yet.
Tagged: Home (473)
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I came home late. She was still awake, and her look rendered me an insect under a rock. I said, Not now. I wanted to be alone with my shame.
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I turned off the TV and turned on the stereo and leaned in, but then she gave me that look, so I turned off the stereo and turned on the TV.
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After weeks of cloud, the sun shines and its light makes its way through our house, and I think, Maybe this is the day we save our marriage.
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Your house smells like cheese, I say to looks of recrimination. And my wife whispers, They’re lactose intolerant. But I can’t deny the smell.
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The dust gets into his lungs and he coughs. She says, I know it’s dirty. He coughs again, and then it’s the asthma. She takes it personally.
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I hung up the painting. It’s fugly, she said. But I’d paid a lot for it. She knew this. She stood there, shaking her head. It’s art, I said.
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I pulled her onto our bed and she said, The kids, and then she said, No really, and then I said, Don’t give me another reason to resent them.
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She starts to clear the table, and she looks at me and says, It’s sexy time, and the kids panic and leave, meaning we get control of the tv.
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I was alone in the house. Out of toilet paper. Phone battery dead. Then a power failure. I closed my eyes. Civilization is cruel, I thought.
