Gary
I sit on a chaise lounge, poolside. The sun hasn’t come up yet. How many days have I been checked in at the resort? Not sure. As hazy as my mind has been lately, it’s a wonder I can still make polite conversation around the pool. My stay at the resort wasn’t planned. After dropping my daughter, Amanda, off at the University of Miami for her freshman year, I didn’t want to go home. So here I am. The first one down to the pool, with the pick of the lot from an assortment of coveted seats.
The afternoon before my daughter and I flew out here, my wife told me (showed me) something that, frankly, I’m still having a hard time believing.
Pools are so damn peaceful early in the morning. The calm before the rush of maladjusted children, before the floating antics of drunk adults. As a child, I always took time to marvel at the flatness of pool water before jumping in. It’s a practice I’ve maintained as an adult. I’ve found it’s even more satisfying to never jump, let someone else ruin the water’s contentment. Reserving the right to indignation is the sweetest of treats.
I’m thinking about how much of a coward I am when the gate to the pool area squeaks. A mom with towels overflowing from her arms scrambles toward a set of lounges across the pool. She sets each towel down on the seats, marking the territory her family will enjoy once they wake up. Early morning labor from mothers such as her are the backbone of poolside status. Without her, her sleeping-in-because-vacation family would have nowhere to perfect their tans.
I wave at the woman. She waves back. I can tell she respects me for not sleeping in but mistrusts me because I’ve only secured one spot. A man without his family? No family, perhaps. A man whose family left him? Not to be trusted.
Fair enough.
Kathleen
“I killed my ex-boyfriend,” I say. I’m sitting across from my sister, Patti, in her cabin home. She’s bad at lying in most circumstances but good at keeping secrets. It’s important to know your siblings’ strengths and weaknesses.
Patti leans back into her plush blue couch. “Which one? Oh god, Kathleen. You’ve been married so long…I’m having a hard time remembering their names. I always remember people from a long time ago by the feeling they gave me, never their names. Was it the guy who smelled like Christmas or the one who made every situation feel like we were in a spy movie?”
“Spy movie. Ricky.”
“Jesus, what happened? He always did give me the creeps. Not that I would have said anything at the time, I always respected your decisions…” Patti does the sign of the cross even though she’s not Catholic, not religious in any sense besides the weird behavioral ephemera that she picks up from traditions she finds aesthetically appealing.
“Can I tell you everything and you let me get it all out before saying anything? I say.
Patti nods.
“Okay, I was shopping for fall sweaters at Macy’s and Ricky was there, at the perfume counter. I hadn’t seen him in over 25 years. I didn’t approach him in the store. Didn’t want to interact. But when I got to my car after checking out, he was there waiting for me. He asked why I hadn’t responded to any of his Facebook messages. Frankly, I hadn’t noticed that he’d sent me any. Maybe I blocked him a long time ago? I don’t know. I could tell he was unstable. Fidgeting. Eyes darting. He had a gun in his pants. Obviously, I’m totally frightened at this point. Heading towards panic, internally. I didn’t know what to do so I offered him a ride home. Stupid, I know. He agreed and gave me his address. Silently, we got in my car. I tried making small talk to keep things light. He answered some of my questions. Didn’t ask me any. When we’re a couple minutes from the address he gave me, he reached over and attacked me, started grabbing at my torso and pulling my hair. Somehow, I pulled off to the side and put the car in park. I managed to hit him in the face but with so little power all it did was enrage him. He practically jumped on top of me. But when he did, his gun got loose. My torso was pinned but I had one free hand. I reached around until I found the gun…miraculously, I was able to save my own life. His body went limp on top of me. With a surge of adrenaline, I heaved him back to the passenger seat. Then I drove straight home. A dead man in the passenger seat. Blood everywhere. All over my clothes. Splattered on the sweaters in the back seat. I called Gary from the driveway. Told him to come out and help me. ‘We need to bury it,’ I said when he got to the car. Patti, can I tell you, the ‘does not compute’ look on his face was…I mean, he shut down. And part of me doesn’t want to blame him. But I needed his help. Goddammit if there was a time I needed his help…and that man sat down on the driveway, put his face in his hands, and stared at the weeds poking through the cracks in the cement. I pleaded with him. He could barely get anything out. Finally, he mustered an ‘I don’t think I can help.’ Pure surprise radiated off my body. I can still feel it. I backed out of the driveway and didn’t look back.”
Patti fiddles with the tassels on her throw blanket. I can tell she’s thinking about asking me if I thought about calling the cops. But she knows better. Our family never calls the cops. Not the way we were raised. We handle our business ourselves. Her eyes shift. She decides to ask a different question. “Have you ever been in a situation where something went wrong and Gary called the police?” she says.
“Once,” I say. “But it was a small neighborhood disturbance and the operator told him several of our neighbors had already called. It ended up just being a few kids from a different neighborhood doing no harm. These Karens out in the suburbs, Patti. You wouldn’t believe it.”
Gary
I swim up to the pool bar and order a Hurricane cocktail. Being in the water gives me an excuse not to look at my phone. I’m dreading a text from Amanda. Lying to her about why her mom didn’t come with to drop her off isn’t fun. And honestly, I don’t know where Kathleen is. In the group text, she told us that her sister was deathly ill and she needed to go there immediately.
Covering for your spouse when you don’t know their intentions is difficult. Amanda can spot my bullshit easily. I’ve never been good at lying to her. But I think she can tell that I don’t really know what’s going on either. Kathleen won’t answer our texts or calls…unless she’s answering Amanda’s and not mine.
My cocktail arrives in front of me. The bartender gives me one of those expert customer service smiles that are obviously performed but so well performed that they make you feel genuinely appreciated for a moment. The service here is fantastic.
Where is Kathleen right now? I don’t think she’s in jail. I assume I would’ve been called if that were the case. She must’ve already buried it. Is she capable of that? She must be. She’s capable of defending herself and keeping her cool while her husband melts into the pavement.
A child bobs in the water less than 10 feet away from me. Another child throws a beach ball at him. The ball bounces off the bobbing child’s forehead. I’m jealous of these children. The frivolity of their bouncing ball is so much lighter than the weight pulling at my temples.
The straw in my drink swivels away from my mouth. I reach and find it again. Slurp everything down. Order another. People complain that all-inclusive resorts don’t put enough alcohol in the “free” drinks, but from what I can tell this resort isn’t so stingy. A soothing buzz starts to undo the pressure on my skull. Liquid therapy provides its promised relief.
Kathleen
“I haven’t dug this much since we were kids,” I say, repositioning my bandana to soak up more of my sweat. Patti and I are an hour north of her cabin, in a patch of woods that our great uncle owns. He hunts here, or rather, used to hunt here before his hip injury.
“Thankfully, my step counter is picking up all this activity. I’m north of 10,000, easy,” says Patti. She sticks her shovel in the dirt. “We deep enough yet?”
“Believe so, let’s roll our buddy in.” I hop out of the hole, pull Patti up. We glance over to Ricky, all rolled up and bagged.
“Kathleen, I gotta tell ya. If I hadn’t started those CrossFit classes a year ago, I don’t think I would’ve been able to help you drag this old assaulter here with you.”
“You’re a champ, sis. Must’ve been a quarter mile we dragged him.”
Patti stretches her back, punches the air a couple times. “Could you ever have imagined this scene when you dated the guy? I mean, this is some crazy shit. He ever hit you when y’all were dating? I don’t remember you ever sounding the alarm on that.”
“Never put a finger on me. He was sweet then,” I say.
“Even the sweetest of boys can turn nasty when they get tripped up in the head,” says Patti, quoting our late mother.
“One of mom’s best sayings.”
“One of many.”
“RIP mom.”
“Rest in hell, Ricky.”
We drag him the last few feet and kick him into his tomb. Relief sweeps through my joints with every heave of dirt falling atop his mutherfucking head.
Gary
With several Hurricanes in my belly, my tipping generosity increases, which increases the frequency in which the servers come back to my lounge to supply me with drink, bar food, even a pack of cigarettes. I’m informed that I can’t smoke by the pool but the roped off beach area down the way is smoker friendly.
My skin glows with a burn that I can’t yet feel.
A woman whose family has gone back upstairs approaches me and asks if she can bum a smoke. I follow her to the beach and we take down half the pack. She’s really taking the moment in, a respite from the nagging requests from her husband and kids. I’m tipsy and my tongue is loose. She’s good at asking questions. The whole story doesn’t come out. I’m not a complete rat. But enough comes out for her to know I’m recently estranged from my wife.
It’s a pitiful scene, really. Me, drunk and blabbering to a stranger. Her, attempting a break from caring, having to hear my story.
She can tell I should probably get back to my room and tells me as much.
“Want to come with?” I say. “I’ll order a bottle of champagne up to the room.” It’s a feeble attempt. I’m pathetic.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says. She’s unthreatened. Unamused but not offended. “Maybe if you hadn’t had so much today, and maybe if I wasn’t faithful.” The generosity in her statement is unearned. But I’ll take it.
When I get up to my room, the TV is set to the intro screen with a commercial for the resort playing an annoying song on repeat. I fiddle with the remote but none of the buttons seem to work. I pass out on the bed before I can change the channel.
Kathleen
“The smash burgers here are a glutton’s dream,” says Patti.
We walk into the small town bar closest to Patti’s cabin.
“I think I might order two,” I say.
“Order three,” says Patti.
“Okay, I will.”
The bartender nods at Patti, smiles at me. It’s always good to arrive at a local spot with a local. “Burger night for the girls?” says the bartender.
“We got an appetite to rival a big boat engine,” says Patti. I roll my eyes. My sister can be so silly. But her statement is not untrue. Asserting dominance over your own destiny feeds a certain kind of bottomless gluttony. Calories don’t count the day you rightfully kill someone.
“I want the cleanest, crispest pilsner you’ve got on tap,” I say. “Follow that with two shots of Jäger and three smash burgers for me.”
The bartender takes a step back. “You can’t weigh over a buck twenty five, little lady. Where you going to pack all that beef? You want the second two in a to-go box?”
“No box,” I say.
“And three for me too,” says Patti.
“Y’all want fries with those?”
“No fries,” I say. “That’s the secret to eating multiple burgers.”
“Starting a tab?” says the bartender.
Patti throws two hundred dollar bills on the bar. “We’ll stop drinking when that runs out. I’ve got another hundred that’s yours if you’re good.”
“That ain’t even a question, Patti.”
“I know it isn’t. It’s hot in my pocket, waiting for you.”
We eat the burgers, savoring each portion in our grass-fed frenzy. Each drink is better than the last. We end the night too drunk to drive. Patti and the bartender share a kiss. Then he drives us home.
Gary
My flight back home is delayed. I’m sitting at the gate nursing a Diet Coke when the text comes in.
Kathleen: I’m coming back today. Not sure of exact ETA. Don’t bother with dinner. I’ll pick something up on my way.
She doesn’t know I’m also traveling back today. My stomach drops. I don’t want to respond, haven’t had any desire to speak to her since seeing the blood-splattered interior of her car. What did she do with the car? With the body? The desperate yet calm seriousness with which she asked for my help still sends chills through my insides. Who is my wife and why is she so capable at handling the grotesque? Should I call the authorities? I may be a coward but I’m not a snitch, I don’t think.
Doing my best to ignore her text, I finish my soda.
Eventually, the plane is ready for us to board. I find my seat and discover that I’m seated next to two children. Their mom is seated one row ahead of us. I’m surprised she doesn’t ask to switch spots with me, but perhaps she is hoping for a small respite from her offspring, a degree of separation, minute yet rewarding.
“Are you scared of flying?” says the kid next to me.
“Me?” I say. “No, I’ve flown many times.”
“You look scared,” says the kid.
“I’m just tired,” I say. The kid wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t believe me. It’s almost impossible to convince kids you’re not scared if they think you are. They sense weakness. Even if they misperceive the reason for your anxiety, they pick up on your general sense of unease. As adults, we adopt the niceties of politeness. Manners, really. We hide our disbelief. Children are bound by no such ceremony. Their protocol leans toward honesty. It’s truly a horror, especially for people like me.
“Don’t bother the man,” says the kid’s mom.
“He’s not a bother,” I say.
“Believe me, he can be,” says the mom.
Turning to the kid, I offer a shrug. “Maybe I’m scared and I don’t want to admit it to myself. It’s okay to be scared, as long as you don’t let it keep you from doing the things you should.”
Sensing my bullshit, the kid turns to his tablet. He doesn’t have time for platitudes from recreants.
For the rest of the flight, I half hope we crash. The uncertainties of afterlife and utter darkness feel more welcoming than facing my wife.
Kathleen
Patti pulls into my driveway. She had to give me a ride back because we discarded my car. I exhale, happy to be home, to have completed the mission. My car is sitting at the bottom of a lake right now. I hope it’s found some day. Long after I’ve passed away.
“Will things be normal between you and Gary?” says Patti.
“Look at my house,” I say. “Does it look normal to you?”
Patti squints, searching for something different.
“It’s not a trick question,” I say. “The house looks the same as it always has. But it feels different, I feel different, looking at it now.”
“You’re not going to tell your therapist about this shit are you,” says Patti. “Obviously not the details but…”
“I haven’t gone to therapy in years,” I say.
“But you’re always talking about therapy…”
“You can just tell people you’re in therapy and they’ll believe you. ‘My therapist told me this, I said that, blah blah blah.’”
“So I’m just ‘people’ to you?” says Patti.
“You just helped me bury a body and hide a car at the bottom of a lake, and you’re offended I lied about going to therapy?”
“Did you ever go?”
“I did.”
“Okay, just don’t lie to me anymore.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
Arriving home can feel baked with the promise of normalcy. Habits await, ready to be picked back up. The bills, neatly piled in mailboxes and inboxes, are waiting for reconciliation.
But it doesn’t feel normal now. And the chance for reconciliation has fled the menu.
Gary
The porch light is on. Kathleen is home. I get out of my Uber. Maybe she’s already gone to bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. We won’t have to talk until the morning.
Tiptoeing inside, it occurs to me that perhaps Kathleen won’t want to speak of the incident at all. Maybe she no longer trusts me with such sensitive information. She may want to go back to normal, pretend it never happened. That’s what I want. God, that’s what I want. She knows I’m a coward, but she probably always knew. Nothing has changed, really. Has it?
I drop my suitcase by the couch, head to the kitchen for a glass of water. As soon as I fill it up, Kathleen enters the kitchen. I jump, spilling half the glass of water.
“Boo,” says Kathleen.
“I thought you were sleeping,” I say.
“I was, but I’m hungry. Going to make a turkey sandwich.”
“At this hour?”
“My appetite. Hot and often lately, I’ll tell ya.”
Sipping my water, I lean against the counter and close my eyes. Is there any part of Kathleen that would want to kill me? Any motive besides disgust at my gutlessness? I mean, two decades of minor annoyances shouldn’t add up to wanting to kill someone, not for a reasonable person at least. That’s just part of marriage—minor annoyances, emphasis on the minor part. As far as I know, she’s only ever killed in self defense. I can’t believe how calm she is right now, spreading mayonnaise and mustard on whole wheat bread, grabbing slice after slice of oven roasted turkey from the bag and plopping it down.
“In the morning, you’ll have to tell me all about dropping off Amanda. I called her earlier, but I want to hear about it from you. I’m so sorry I missed it,” says Kathleen.
“Morning works for me,” I say. “And by the way, I think I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” Kathleen plates her sandwich and heads back into the bedroom, her robe gliding against the carpet.
Kathleen
Picking up my toothbrush, I stare at myself in the mirror. Despite the large quantities of food I’ve been eating, I’m looking lean. Early morning vascularity.
With each brush, I apply more pressure. I didn’t brush after my sandwich last night and don’t want any lingering mustard stains. The closer I get to my gums, the redder the toothpaste foam gets. When I was growing up, my mom always used to tell me, “Be gentle.” Rumbling down stairs. Closing cupboards. Wrestling with my cat. I’ve never been gentle. Switching sides of my mouth, I scrub harder. A rage, not completely unfamiliar but previously distant enough, directs my brushing, taking out its energy on the unswallowed dashes of mayonnaise lingering in the crevices of my mouth. Why did mom always tell me to be gentle? Because I was a girl perhaps. Or because the carpet on the stairs was fading fast, and the cupboards were beginning to crack, and my cat’s eyes were filled with fear. Or because aggression doesn’t become a young lady, sexism, the patriarchy. Or because of all of it. Probably all of it.
My front gums bleed. The threat of mustard stains is gone, replaced by red. I spit into the sink, frustrated, flustered. My calm from the point of the incident until now felt so reassuring. Maybe I’m coming off the high. Some of the tension is catching up. But I’ll get it back, my cool. Some of this rage should be directed at Gary, not my gums. Disrobing, I turn the shower knob. A cold shower will tamper the steam escaping from my pores.
After a few minutes of shampooing, I almost slip. Catch myself. “Jesus fucking Christ, sweet hallelujah slut,” I yell. Almost slipping is one of the worst parts about being a human. It’s a reminder of just how vulnerable you are, a prod without a punch. Under normal circumstances, almost slipping is the closest I get to accessing a level of unreasonable rage. But with that rage (albeit fairly reasonable right now) already pissing in my front yard, I’m irate.
A muffled “You okay in there?” comes from Gary on the other side of the door.
“Almost slipped. All good,” I say, clawing for internal control. I’m not going to let Gary see how upset I am. Not yet.
Gary
Cooking breakfast is one of those things that doesn’t seem worth it until you’re doing it. Like lifting weights, or shaving, or raising a child. But once the bacon is sizzling, you’re convinced you’ll do it every day. I grab the tongs and flip the bacon over. Grease jumps from the pan, lightly sprinkling my wrist.
“Look who’s cooking breakfast.” says Kathleen, walking into the kitchen, wet hair over her shoulders. She’s light on her feet, floating to the coffee cupboard.
“Thought it might be nice to make a proper breakfast, being we haven’t seen each other in a few days.”
“Feeling guilty?”
“For what, my dear?” I’m trying to keep it light.
“Oh nothing, it’s just a pattern.” Kathleen stops making coffee for a second and picks up a knife. “You think some avocado toast would be nice as well?”
“A feast,” I say. “What’s the pattern?”
“You probably cook breakfast once or twice a year, almost always after you’ve done something you regret.”
“You’re keeping track?”
“I’ve got a spreadsheet and everything.”
“Seriously?”
Kathleen laughs. “No, no spreadsheet. Jesus, Gary. You’re a nervous nelly this morning. What’s the deal?”
I consider bringing it up outright. She’s torturing me with this. Underneath her airy lightness, she’s pissed off in a radical way. I’d thought maybe she wouldn’t want to bring it up, but this energy is different. She’s going to make me wait unless I force the issue. Can I be as stubborn as her in response? Probably not. But I can wait a little bit longer.
“No deal, no guilt. We’re empty nesters now. I think this’ll be a lot more common now.”
“Well, we’ll have to keep it a secret from Amanda. She might be seriously offended if she finds out how much fresh bacon she’s missing.”
“Did you get a chance to call her?”
“I did. How’d the dropoff go?”
“Thankfully, I think she was so excited, the fact that you weren’t there didn’t bother her too much. The campus is massive. So much bigger than where we went. I was overwhelmed. She was enthralled. Her dorm is tiny, though. It’s a good thing you convinced her to halve what she was going to bring.” I look up from the bacon. Kathleen is biting her tongue, literally. No doubt she’s appalled that I passive aggressively called her out for not being there. Ridiculous of me, I know. If she’s going to make me sweat, I’m going to poke at her rage.
“I’m glad it went well,” she says, slicing an avocado.
Kathleen
Hierarchy is an unproductive mythology. That being said, I feel superior to Gary right now in every way. I’m unafraid of violence, capable of defending myself, and sane enough to successfully compartmentalize my life in a manner that directs appropriate action toward oncoming phenomena in proportion to its intensity, all without breaking apart my consciousness to such a degree that I cannot wholeheartedly feel the full effects of recent events in my body. Gary, on the other hand, resorts to passive aggressive nonsense in the face of conflict, fully ignoring the legitimate trauma I’ve gracefully endured.
My husband is a bitch.
My husband is a bitch?
I’m not a victim, but it was a close call.
Gary shoves a piece of bacon into his mouth. His mouth is small. Maybe it’s not. I’ve never noticed before. But it looks small now. Feeble. He gnaws at the fat, saliva desperate for nutrients. Frail body soft for sustenance, yearning for calories never to be used, never leveraged, never applied to anything noble or capable or worthy.
“Not hungry, Kathleen?” he says, fully aware of my gaze, potentially unaware of the depth of the disdain streaking around the curvature of my ribs.
I hate when he uses my full first name.
“Kath”
“Babe”
“Cocaine Kathy”
Those are the acceptable names. The cocaine one is a joke. I did it once in college and my best friend started calling me that. She told Gary about it right before he asked me out.
“Cocaine Kathy, I’m not sure we can introduce you like that to my mother, but I’d still like the chance to take you out,” he’d said. I punched him in the chest. And said yes to the date. True to his word, he never told my mother. He’s a coward. But not a snitch. I think.
Gary
The bacon grease slides into my stomach. I close my eyes and think about the fact that I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion I’m wasting my life while simultaneously being convinced that my behaviors are rationally connected to my desires.
“You know,” says Kathleen. “I read a memoir once called The Fall Gives Way to Forever.”
“You used to read more, didn’t you?” I say.
Kathleen rolls her eyes. “There’s a part in the book that feels relevant right now.”
“What’s it about?”
“Let me see if it’s still on the shelf.” Kathleen rises from the table and fetches the book from our hallway bookshelf. I clear the dishes while she flips through the pages, searching for a particular passage.
“Ahh, I found it. Sit down, Gary. Let me read it to you.”
This can’t be good. She’s really putting on a show. I want the book to burst into flames. She clears her throat and reads.
“I get uncomfortable when I imagine a situation where I kill someone in self defense or in defense of a loved one. Specifically, I get uncomfortable with the probability that I will most likely feel relief. This relief, however, will not be absolute. I will also feel that I can no longer take my beloved anti-violence stance, politically or interpersonally.
Moral hypocrisy is not my only fear. When I imagine a scenario where I choose not to defend myself or my loved ones, I am disturbed by my potential propensity for being paralyzed by an ideological stance in such a way that I am unnecessarily harmed. I would hold contempt for myself if I placed principle above action in a moment of great urgency and need.
Violence is often, if not always, meaningless, arbitrary, and unnecessary. At the same time, I do believe in self preservation.
Imagined self-defense scenarios make me feel uncomfortable. Either I will be a coward, or I won’t be able to believe in anything.”
Kathleen sets the book down on the table, pats it.
“Do you think you’ll reread the book?” I say.
“No, it’s mostly just that part that I like,” Kathleen says.
“You find it inspiring? I wouldn’t have guessed you’d like a nuanced coward.”
“A nuanced coward is better than a feeble one.”
“I disagree. In the end they both…well…nothing really.”
Kathleen
After breakfast, I head to the gym. If you don’t count lifting dead bodies of assault-happy ex-boyfriends from the distant past, I haven’t lifted in more than a week. The gym is mostly empty. A skinny man in his 40s wearing a Shawn Kemp jersey does air squats on a mat in the corner. An influencer-looking mom bench presses with perfect form in the center of the room. Another man in his 40s, this one thick and cut and serious, deadlifts off to the side.
Stepping onto the stair climber, I remind myself that I only have to climb for five minutes. Some people stay on the stair climber for an eternity. No me. I use it exclusively for warmup. I hate the stair climber but it’s the perfect warmup. Better than static stretching or the monotone hum of the treadmill.
Once my five minutes of dreadful, hate-inducing climbing is up, I shimmy over to the free weights for chest and back exercises. I’m giddy at the prospect of silently comparing myself with the influencer mom. As I go through my routine, I’m careful to select weights and rep volumes slightly higher than her. Hopefully she’s not detecting my glances in her direction. I want to give off the impression that I’m completely unaware of her presence.
A shout from the skinny man pierces the generic pop music emitting from the gym radio. The strong man and I both give our attention to the weakling in the corner. It appears that he has sprained his ankle while jumping rope. He lies awkwardly, holding his ankle and laboring to keep his yips to a minimum. The strong man goes over to help him. I look at the influencer mom to see if she noticed at all. She catches me, stares at me a little too long, smirks to herself. She won. I lost, even though I lifted more than her. I cared more about what the other person thought. I’m the vain one in this moment. Shit.
The rest of my workout goes fine but the stakes are lower. Still, I work up a good rhythm, a healthy sweat. The simplicity of weight lifting provides a needed respite from navigating the complex emotions of returning to domestic life with a man I’m not sure I’m proud to know.
Once my workout is complete, I head to the car dealership, take a few for a test drive, lie to the saleslady about the reason I need a new one.
Gary
Filled almost to the top, my tub welcomes me. Bubbly water flirts with the edge as my gross, naked body slides in. I don’t think my body is gross. But I imagine that most people would, if they saw it naked. Eternal life is a great idea, but only if everybody gets to be young and hot. Being stuck in a series of ontological crises can only be fun if your mode of existence is a sexy one.
My bar of soap is red. Like the blood of Christ. Maybe I could pitch my cowardice as forgiveness. Tell Kathleen I’ve been born again. Incapable of revenge. Incapable of covering up bloodshed. Incapable of (as just as it might be) the shedding of the unjust. There’s little chance she’ll go for that. I wonder when she’ll divorce me.
Ignoring the soap, I splash the water a bit.
Almost no adults splash when they take a bath. I imagine they don’t. I guess I don’t know. I hope they do.
People get angry when other people are scared of conflict. I wish they didn’t.
People hope to go on grand adventures. I never have.
Epilogue
Kathleen will wait to divorce Gary. She will ease back into the normal rhythms of their suburban life. She will make him feel wanted again, lull him into ignoring his own cowardice. And three years after the incident, when he’s finally convinced himself it was all a bad dream that won’t be brought up again, she’ll leave.