The Liquid So Forms

The Liquid So Formed

She watched him leave, watched him close the latch on her front gate for the last time, and heard his car door close and engine turn over. Headlights swept over her, and her gnarled hand lifted to shield her eyes. The gravel in her drive ground under his wheels as he edged onto the dark blacktop and accelerated back into his own life. His own life. Without her. He hadn’t touched her, not a peck, though he smiled through wet eyes. Her hair in curlers, she hadn’t even time to dress.

She stood by the window, numb but not empty. The pit inside her warned of the coming slaughter, the burned chamber of her heart pulsed, squeezed out spent shells with each beat. They filled her, sealing into a weapon destined to tear her to pieces shrapnel by shrapnel. She swallowed, her face a mask. She ignored her blunt fingers and their nervous scratching, her arm turning raw. When she’d started he was still here, still talking. He’d stopped listening long before, but that didn’t stop her trying.

Her arm was sore, welts rising on her skin, but she kept scratching, unwilling to sever that last link. That last surface pain, before her soul splintered. She felt it behind the curtain, pushing at her numb, slamming her in the door, breaking the hinges.

She stumbled trying to reach the sofa, the sofa, the sofa. The sofa where he’d accepted the last glass of tea, not drinking except for a polite sip or two. She’d added lemon, used real sugar and not the artificial he disliked. She’d remembered, though lifetimes had passed. She remembered everything about him. How his hair curled and waved, where his beard was turning to gray, how the lines in his face were deepening. How he laughed as a boy. He laughed a lot, but not here. Not with her.

Blood means different, means family, means fruited trees and laughing summer sun, soft pillows and soft eyes. Means minding even when it hurts, with her soft fingers, her soft eyes, her rotting whispers and sulfur need.

She sat, cradling her arm now, and reached for her prescriptions. He cared. She knew he cared, but. But. Blood runs thicker, she’d said. Sad eyes shifted to the television, closed fingers tucked between his thighs. Closed to her, his life already sealed away, protected. When he stood, he would leave, leave. Leave.

She nodded, wringing her hands, forced a smile. His favorite show was on, she made sure. Her ribs ached, trapped heart splitting open, dead womb weeping. The grave inside her rolled, the earth turning, bones bleached and grinning. Last chance lost. Lost fingers waved their goodbye.

Her trembling chin set, and she changed the channel, her eyes hard. Condensation trailed down the sides of the glass.