My wife, who doesn't love me anymore, she's said as much, is preparing dinner, chicken, rice, and a vegetable--cabbage, I think--while I flip through the TV channels and try to find the evening news. Ah, there it is. I don't want to hear it and won't turn up the volume until she comes to the threshold between the living room and kitchen to tell me, Turn it up. Sure, I say. And I do. Then she returns to command, Louder, please. Sorry, I say. How's that? What, she says. I can't hear you. So I turn down the voices and am about to say How's that again when I recall how nuts that is, to lower the volume to ask her, now that she can hear me, if it's loud enough. I don't love me, either, but that shouldn't mean that she shouldn't, too, does it? It's ready, she says. So I get our plates and glasses of milk and take them back into the living room, where we sit in front of the TV to eat, listen, and not believe. It's good, I tell her. What, she says. The Dow-Jones averages? No, I say. I mean supper. It's good. That's right, she says. What's for dessert, I say. Uh uh, she says --no dessert. I'm on a diet, you know. Well, sure, I say. But I'm not. We have to share, she says. Of course, I say. But if there's nothing for dessert then how do we share nothing? Well, we share nothing everyday, she says. Uh, I say. Oh. Well. Well, when you put it that way, I say, that's depressing. It's the truth, she says. I'm finished She's still eating. I'm still hungry, I say. Me, too, she says. Or will be. But I've got the will, and we're married, so you have the will, too. Oh, I say. Well. That's not much fun, is it. We're married, she repeats. Like business. Fun doesn't figure in. Oh, I say. Well. Uh. There's a little flesh left on her thigh bone. What do you want to do now, I say. Watch TV, she says. I'm watching TV. News. Jeopardy. The Price is Right. I can wash the dishes, I say. You do that, she says --knock yourself out. Minutes later my hands plunge into soap and hot water. I close my eyes and the water feels like fresh blood. I open them and everything is pure again. Nothing's cleaner than blood, I say, loudly. Huh, she says. What did you say? I didn't say anything, I lie. I close my eyes again and the next dish that I drown is still cool and smooth, like taut skin, but heats quickly. I retrieve it, slick and blank. Like Grandmother at the funeral home, I say. What, she says. Were you calling me? Yes, Baby, I say--would you like to die? No, she says. Just let them dry in the rack. Now I'm washing knives, short and long, and all sharp. There she is, reflected in the steel, but only the head--I don't see a neck or torso anymore, unless I hold the biggest one lengthwise, and then the arms are amputated. I pull the plug and everything goes down the drain except what's snared in the strainer, bits of fat and flecks and fibers that won't pass through the vortex. I empty them into the trash. I kill the light and take my place beside my love. Jeopardy. These puzzles are too easy, I say. Quiet, says my queen. Don't spoil it. |