amphibi.us

Pearled smoothness catches her attention and suddenly she is aware of the last iridescent button gliding under her fingertips. It flashes silver-blue, then deadens-leaving a dull, lifeless gray. She shrugs the silk from her shoulders with a rustle like memories better left forgotten.

Sunlight stretches under the high curtains. It tickles her bare skin as she exchanges professional attire for comfort.  She hums to herself and takes a mental inventory of the evening’s dinner ingredients.

A single reverberating crack wrenches her back in time. She shutters and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a vain attempt to block a gun blast she’s never actually heard. Golden hairs bristle on her arms but she focuses on filling her lungs with air, consciously expanding her chest, until the lurking disquiet slinks back to its hiding spot.

Did he realize, she wonders as she goes to the kitchen and systematically begins removing clean plates from the dishwasher, how his choice would affect her?

Pushing away thoughts of what he did or did not realize, she flips on the stereo and boppy music streams out, providing a mind numbing melody to sing along with. But even as she sings, she needs more distraction. She clicks on the TV and finds strange solace in the static movements of fictional beings.

A blaze of color beckons from the sink. She rinses peppers, eggplant, spinach and carrots and prepares to chop. Momentarily entranced by the flashing steel blade of her chef’s knife her eyes shift involuntarily to the pale green veins twisting down her wrist. Had he considered just letting his life drain away? What prompts a person to utilize one means of death over another?

Maybe if he’d left the requisite suicide note, she might understand. But they never found one. If he put explanations or apologies in writing, the wind tore them away, leaving only a dead boyfriend and unanswered questions.

She seizes a carrot and hacks with extreme prejudice. She can still see him. She pictures him exactly as he was their last night together. His last night, period. A different kitchen, a different season, but the knife was the same. She wracks her memories for some indication of what would come next. She re-examines his comments, his expressions, the way he held the knife, and finds nothing. It’s not the first time she’s played this game.

Would things have been different if she had woken when he slipped out of her bed to go home? If, still drowsy and unaware, she had reached for him and pulled him back to her, holding him close in those desperate wee hours?

She splits a pepper open and scrapes thousands of tiny seeds away from the deep scarlet flesh, as indifferent to the creamy pods as she had been to the inconvenient fetus the two of them created. The seeds scatter across the metallic sink and, in a rush of water, slide down the drain into darkness.

© Rebecca Gaffron, 2010