his son also remained a mystery. When he had absently begun to order his son’s favorite food, some new kind of sadness began to eat away at him. He’d experienced loss before, a range of it. The loss of a parent, the loss of a trophy fish. This was different. This hurt worse.
He sensed the same sadness in his wife as they sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat. They spoke about their days. The mundane things, the funny things, the frustrating things, some gossip, the happenings of the impending weekend. He wanted to ask about the son. Where was he? Was he around? Was he coming home soon? Away at college? In prison? Dead? There were only so many places a son might be, and none of them a father couldn’t reach.
After dinner they caught up on their favorite television show. The husband drank beer and the wife drank boxed red wine. Throughout the evening, she stepped outside three times for a cigarette. The first time, he touched his breast pocket, feeling for the pack of cigarettes he, Doug, kept there. The reassuring hardness of the rectangular pack was gone, and his fingers sank into the flab of his pectorals. He’d asked the wife for a cigarette and she’d looked at him strangely. He said never mind and told a joke that made no sense in that or any other context, then while she went outside to smoke her cigarette alone, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. In there he felt dizzy. He found breathing difficult. Each lungful entered him like cotton. He thought of the bad air outside. He pressed a hand to his heart, wondered why its rhythm seemed so wrong, thought he counted off thirty seconds between beats, but his counting must have been wrong. When he heard the front door open, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and returned to the living room to continue watching television with his wife. Their favorite show. The second and third time she went outside for a cigarette, he did not ask her for one and he did not leave the couch. He’d grown afraid there in the kitchen. Afraid of what, he did not know.
In bed that night before they slept, his wife said ‘I love you’ in the dark.
It sounded so much like ‘goodbye’ that tears welled up in his eyes. He trembled and wept. His wife held him, her body soft beneath loose pajamas. She did not ask what was wrong. She only said kind and tender things. This calmed him, yes, but also worried him. The wife’s words and touch confirmed that all his pain was real. He’d wanted so badly for it to be make-believe. He wanted to be done with all this sadness and this fear. Her fingers combed through his hair and she kissed him on the mouth. Beneath the blankets she spread her legs, inviting him. He stirred despite himself. They did not make love so much as they applied a salve to their mutual pain.
Afterward, tangled in the sweaty sheets, he felt whole again. He laid a hand on his wife’s belly and wondered how long it would last. He opened his mouth to ask her a question, to propose that they try again, buy an RV, go on vacation, eat at that four star steakhouse they’d talked about for years—anything to fuel the calm he felt another mile. Something to look forward to. Something to feel good about. By the time he settled upon the ideal proposal, the wife was already asleep. He stayed up half the night and watched her sleep. Life and love had not been easy for them. Despite all that had transpired, in the gloaming she looked beautiful, happy, and at peace. He could not help but celebrate this quiet victory.
Loveyoubye .
When he awoke in the morning, his wife was already gone. He got out of bed and dressed in the clothes he’d worn the day before. He was late for work. He ate some sort of breakfast bar and left the house. On the highway, he missed his exit. Instead of getting off and turning back, he kept on going. He drove right out of town. When he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he looked a little bit less like the man he’d
He sensed the same sadness in his wife as they sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat. They spoke about their days. The mundane things, the funny things, the frustrating things, some gossip, the happenings of the impending weekend. He wanted to ask about the son. Where was he? Was he around? Was he coming home soon? Away at college? In prison? Dead? There were only so many places a son might be, and none of them a father couldn’t reach.
After dinner they caught up on their favorite television show. The husband drank beer and the wife drank boxed red wine. Throughout the evening, she stepped outside three times for a cigarette. The first time, he touched his breast pocket, feeling for the pack of cigarettes he, Doug, kept there. The reassuring hardness of the rectangular pack was gone, and his fingers sank into the flab of his pectorals. He’d asked the wife for a cigarette and she’d looked at him strangely. He said never mind and told a joke that made no sense in that or any other context, then while she went outside to smoke her cigarette alone, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. In there he felt dizzy. He found breathing difficult. Each lungful entered him like cotton. He thought of the bad air outside. He pressed a hand to his heart, wondered why its rhythm seemed so wrong, thought he counted off thirty seconds between beats, but his counting must have been wrong. When he heard the front door open, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and returned to the living room to continue watching television with his wife. Their favorite show. The second and third time she went outside for a cigarette, he did not ask her for one and he did not leave the couch. He’d grown afraid there in the kitchen. Afraid of what, he did not know.
In bed that night before they slept, his wife said ‘I love you’ in the dark.
It sounded so much like ‘goodbye’ that tears welled up in his eyes. He trembled and wept. His wife held him, her body soft beneath loose pajamas. She did not ask what was wrong. She only said kind and tender things. This calmed him, yes, but also worried him. The wife’s words and touch confirmed that all his pain was real. He’d wanted so badly for it to be make-believe. He wanted to be done with all this sadness and this fear. Her fingers combed through his hair and she kissed him on the mouth. Beneath the blankets she spread her legs, inviting him. He stirred despite himself. They did not make love so much as they applied a salve to their mutual pain.
Afterward, tangled in the sweaty sheets, he felt whole again. He laid a hand on his wife’s belly and wondered how long it would last. He opened his mouth to ask her a question, to propose that they try again, buy an RV, go on vacation, eat at that four star steakhouse they’d talked about for years—anything to fuel the calm he felt another mile. Something to look forward to. Something to feel good about. By the time he settled upon the ideal proposal, the wife was already asleep. He stayed up half the night and watched her sleep. Life and love had not been easy for them. Despite all that had transpired, in the gloaming she looked beautiful, happy, and at peace. He could not help but celebrate this quiet victory.
Loveyoubye .
When he awoke in the morning, his wife was already gone. He got out of bed and dressed in the clothes he’d worn the day before. He was late for work. He ate some sort of breakfast bar and left the house. On the highway, he missed his exit. Instead of getting off and turning back, he kept on going. He drove right out of town. When he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he looked a little bit less like the man he’d
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