after

They are done. It is over. And she thinks, to herself: Is that it? Is that all? Why don’t – why can’t; why won’t – I feel more? His scent, at one point almost intoxicating, is now just sweat, old, cold. She doesn’t love him less, but does she love him more? And shouldn’t she? Or shouldn’t it be at least different? Shouldn’t it be something other than what it was before, even if it was just moments? She wants to talk with him, ask him if he ever has those sorts of questions, those sorts of doubts, but he’s already asleep. He works hard. He works long hours. He’s got other things on his mind. But this is important to her. Yet, she doesn’t ask, but she does wonder, to herself, about that, too: why doesn’t she ask him? Is she afraid of the answer? Or afraid that he will act as if, if not say outright, that she’s making way too much of nothing? So, she doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak. She just sidles in closer, hoping that his body will provide some warmth, the needed kind.

sky's king

There’s more clouds
and sky, here,
he thinks, or is it just
that he’s looking
up, more. A person can
get
used to walking
around and
about
with his head down, which
is
a
rather sad way to go through life,
unless
you’re always looking for
spare change,
which he did seem to find with more
regularity
in recent past times than he does
now, he thought, just
a day ago,
when he
rescued a tails-up
penny
from the crosswalk
outside
Wal
Mart. He didn’t
make the connection, then. But he
did pocket the penny, after which
he looked
up into the blue, trusting that the
aproaching
car
would
stop.
On second thought,
he thinks, now,
perhaps the sky
is just
bigger, here.

karma

She found him sitting in a chair in the corner, an odd look on his face. “How long have you been there?” she asked. He said he didn’t know. Maybe five minutes, maybe twenty, maybe an hour. “Are you ok?” she asked. He didn’t answer, right away. “Honey?” Still nothing. “I was ok, then, everything slowed down and went black,” he said, still looking off, away, almost absently. “I’ll call a doctor,” she said. “I think you should,” he answered. His name is Nick. He was an accountant. Hers is Melanie. She is a teacher. Three days later, they would find out that he’d suffered a stroke. He was 36. “Hold me, for a moment,” he said. “I’m scared.” She did. She was scared, too, but tried not to let on. Nick would be dead in four months. He died two days before she found out she was pregnant. That day, the day of the first stroke, she’d been off with her lover, Jay, the mechanic who worked on their cars. She would later think that she’d killed him, Nick, that it had been a punishment for her adultery, and maybe it had been.

MIA

He sat every afternoon on the porch, the dog, Nix, at his side, waiting for his boy to come home. He’d received the notice six weeks ago that Ronnie was MIA in Afghanistan. A few days later, an Army chaplain came by. He didn’t particularly care for him, the priest, seeing as how he, Herm, was Baptist and white and the father was black. But he stayed quiet, mostly, listening to what they all had to say, him, the priest, and the neighbors who stopped by, then and again, early on. For two days after the priest came he didn’t speak to a soul, ‘cept maybe to ol' Nix, when the dog didn’t come in right away at dark. He understood that; Nix was the boy’s dog. Now, it’d become days and days of sitting and waiting. Early on he’d decided he would do it until the first snow, sit there, like this. But it was getting close, now. The winds were strong and brittle, hammering out of the west sometimes, swooping down from the top of Mt. Stone others. And sometimes he thought he would sit there no matter what happened, snow be damned – unless the boy came home, that is. Then he would go inside, sit by the fire and have a beer with him. And he’d finally tell him that he loved him. Then, he’d head upstairs. He’d be able to sleep, again.

go, now

I’m in love with her, he said.
Are you sure? she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. Yes, he answered.
How long have you been seeing her? she asked.
Two months, three. Maybe four.
I knew there was something.
I’m sorry, he said, I never meant to hurt you.
She smiled, sadly. It’s what everyone always says. What matters, the intention? What’s done is done.
I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, he said.
I’m sure you will, she answered, then said, I have only one question.
Yes?
When you were with her, did you ever think of me? Once?
No, he said.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then said, I think you should go, now.

if not

She wakes in the middle of the night, feeling alone, even though she is not, but wondering, quietly, how that can be so, that she feels that way? He breathes softly, lying on his side, faced away from her, and she wonders if he suddenly turned toward her would she recognize the face? A silly thought, but she lets it live -- and then grow. If it weren’t him, would it be better, or worse? If not him, who would she want it to be? No one, she decides, quickly, for it’s not him, but her. And she already knew that.

prayer book

She stood in the checkout line, flipping through the book and when it came her turn she had Diego, the checkout kid, scan it so she could find out the price -- $10.99. She said, “I’ll take it,” which served, at least this day, to answer the question: who on God’s green earth buys a book titled “How Prayer Can Help Your Marriage.” No editorial comments at the checkout, of course. It wouldn’t’ve been polite and Diego didn’t seem to care. He was worried about all the homework he still had waiting for him. The guy behind just wanted things to keep moving. He was missing football. The lady two back did wonder a few things, though: 1) why doesn’t she just lose about 45 pounds and 2) God only knows what the chapters are titled. She had a few suggestions for those, of course: A Prayer to Make Him Stop Farting and A Prayer to Make Him Do A Little More Than Nothing Around the House. She was pretty proud of herself. Ok, she felt a little bad about the weight crack. But just a little.