But I am pretty certain that she would have been the
only one. And, even so, her curiosity would have been mild at best. Or
non-existent, now that she has vanished.
I cleanse my hands again. It's safer. One never knows the mischief of
the winds. Why should I risk the inadvertent introduction of my waste
into my mouth while eating?
When my wife informed me she is bailing out of our depressing life, she
insisted that I was the first to abandon her. She accused me of
emotional absenteeism. I was in the throes of a particularly gratifying
leak on the undergrowth around a crimson fireplug. The oxblood soil,
now frothy laced, aflame, the setting sun.
I placed the call to her naively. She bid farewell, her voice was
steel, and she was gone.
I instantly grasped the stark futility of any war I'd wage to bring her
back. I also knew it'll never be the same, peeing on plants. I am bound
to remember her and what and how she said, the frightful burn, that
swoon. I must have turned yellow-pale, then brown-orange, and
putrefactive arteries have sprung throughout me. I couldn't do a thing
but writhe under her sentence.
The muffled sounds of cars from outside. Some people tell the make by
distant rumbles: deep bass, stentorian busses, the wheezing buzz of
compacts.
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