knife

[gollum]

The garbage has started to stink, that rotting, nasty food smell wafting from the trash can every chance it gets, and they are fighting a silent war over who will take it out. She is in the kitchen, making dinner, the knife flashing dangerously through the vegetables. Every few minutes, she dumps something in the trash, then slams the lid of the can shut. He is in the dining room, glued to the computer, hand sliding the mouse back and forth gracefully. He does not look at her. After all, she's the one with the knife.

"Aren't you worried about what that shit'll do to you?" she calls out over the whack-whack-whack of the knife. He is certain that her choice of knife was deliberate this evening, that she chose the butcher knife for the carrots and celery on purpose. He drags the arrow across the screen with his right hand, letting it slide over a rainbow of shockingly brilliant colors. His left hand is buried in the inch or so of hair on the back of his head, imagining. Yesterday he dyed his hair blond. Next week he turns twenty-eight.

"There's lead in that shit, ya know," she calls again, as though they're on opposite sides of the long, narrow apartment. The lid of the garbage can goes shoop-thud as she whisks it open and slams it shut again. The knife resumes. "And if you stain my tub, i'll kill you." [At the moment, he's not sure if she means that literally or not.]

Deliberately, with careful, measured movements, he takes a Sleater-Kinney cd out of its case from on top of the monitor, opens the cd drive, and drops the disk in. Closing it, he turns the volume up and starts the music. Fire with fire, he thinks as the first grrl punk guitar riff comes blaring out of the speaker. He's trying to drown it all out?the knife, the garbage, the intertwining smell of food simmering and rotting, her voice. He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe if he focuses on the music, he'll open them again and find himself on some higher plane, in never-never land, or even at the goth shop in Indy. He's almost afraid to open his eyes again, knowing what he'll find is not what he wants. Only the thought of finding more hair dye is motivation enough.

He clicks, he points, he blinks. The room grows progressively darker as night continues to slide through town. The room is silver, magical, in the glow from the screen. Before yesterday, he had never dyed his hair. Now it's all he can think about.

The phone rings, and she picks it up. "It's Dale," she tells him in her as if it could get any worse voice. He closes the web browser and stands up, stretching, reaching for something he'll never be able to touch. She sets the phone down on the counter with a clunk, then resumes cutting.

"Hey, man, what's up?" he asks, trying to sound lighter than he feels.

"You wanna go to the bar?" Dale asks. Dale's never been one to say more than he deems necessary.

He looks at his watch. "Sure, man, i can meet you there in half an hour."

"No you can't." Her voice is flat, insistent. "You're staying for dinner."
"We can make it later," Dale says.
"Don't worry about it," he tells him. "Half an hour. I'll see you then."

When he hangs up the phone, her eyes follow him. Her arms are crossed tightly across her chest, the knife gleaming from under one arm. He stares her down for a few seconds, then drops his eyes as his nerve leaves him. They come to rest on the garbage, and he scowls. He looks back up at her, scowl planted firmly on his face. "I'm goin' to the bar."

"You're staying for dinner."

"I'll eat when i get back."

"You won't be back till late."

"I'm just gonna go have a couple
drinks with Dale is all. I'm not gonna be out that late. Gimme a break, i haven't seen Dale in like two weeks."

"Yeah, like you've talked to me at all today."

He takes a deep breath, trying not to scream in frustration, and a sarcastic smile emerges on his lips. "I'm just goin' to the bar. It's not like dinner's goin' anywhere." He moves towards the hallway.

She takes a step closer to him, into his path. "You're eating dinner here."

He steps around her, making sure to head for the side without the knife, and kisses her on the cheek. "I'll?"

She explodes before he can finish, shoving him away from her. He hits his head on the cabinet, and they start screaming at the same instant.

"Why the hell would i?"

"Don't you patronize?"

"?stay here and take this?"

"?me, you asshole. I don't need?"

"?shit from you?! I'm going?"

"?this from you. Just go."

They stop, the steam building up again. "Just go," she repeats again. She turns around to hide the tears beginning to well up. He stands there for a second, then turns and strides to the door with fast, heavy steps. Snatching up his coat from the back of the couch. The sound of the pot on the stove simmering is the only thing that can be heard in the aftermath of the slam of the door.

*

At the bar, they drink beer and throw darts to the point of depressing monotony. The jukebox sings in the background, as distant and ignored as the sound of the neighbor's toilet flushing in the morning on the other side of the bathroom wall. They alternate throwing darts with swallowing beer, the thwump of dart on corkboard punctuating the chatter that punctuates the music. They talk about everything and nothing, none of them important, ranging from the weather ("You think it's gonna get colder?" "Can't get much colder than this") to hockey ("Think the Red Wings are gonna win the Cup this year?") to their sister ("You meet Mandy's new boyfriend?"). They don't talk about anything important. Dale knows better than to bring up the important things.

He does, however, bring up his birthday. "Mom having a get-together next week?" Dale asks, tipping back his fifth beer.

"Yeah, i guess." He shrugs. "I'm sure she'll do something. She always does."

"She seen your hair yet?" Dale smirks at him. If he were more sober, he wouldn't be asking.

"Nope. She'll see it soon enough, i guess."

They throw another round of darts, order another round. The jukebox seems to get suddenly louder, the bar suddenly more lonesome, and he finds himself sitting in a wooden chair while Dale takes aim at the dartboard. He sets his half-emptied bottle of beer down on the table. "I'm going home," he says. He doesn't know until he opens his mouth that he's leaving, but he knows that that's what he's got to do.

"What?" Dale asks over his shoulder. "I'm not done with my beer yet." He stands up unsteadily as Dale turns away from the dartboard. "I'm going home," he repeats. Dale says nothing, but just stands there and watches as he puts on his coat and weaves his way through the remaining crowd to the door.

The heat and the light and the noise all cut off when the door closes behind him. The snow has stopped, leaving a thick, glasslike crust over everything. Only the street has been marred, and it sits like a frozen, dirty river, momentarily empty of motion.

He pulls his coat closer, huddling into himself, and starts to walk home. The snow crunches beneath his boots, sticking to the leg of his pants. "Six blocks," he whispers to himself, his breath coming out in a potent fog. "Six blocks."

He walks down deserted side streets. It is one o'clock in the morning. The houses he passes are all dark, quiet, warm. He imagines the people inside snuggled down under thick blankets and heavy quilts, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. He walks faster.

He fumbles for his keys in the unforgiving streetlight. The apartment is dark, the porch light out. His key slips into the lock on the third try, and he opens the door carefully, quietly.

The snow on his jeans has melted by the time he has turned around and locked the door again. Tonight, he even locks the handle on the screen door because it makes her feel safer.

He leaves his boots on the mat by the door and pads into the kitchen in his socks, his wet jeans clinging coldly to his ankles. Her dinner dishes are stacked up haphazardly in the sink. The same feeling of regret that drove him from the bar hits him again, and he stands in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the sink, feeling helpless. He would do the dishes, but the noise of water hitting sink, glass bumping plate, would wake her. Hands at his side, he stands there for another few seconds until it hits him.

The garbage.

He takes the lid off of the can carefully, then pulls the edges of the heavy, disgusting white bag up. Tying them in a quick, clumsy knot, he lifts the bag up and sets it on the linoleum next to the can. Leaving it there, he walks back to the front door and picks up his boots. He carries them to the kitchen door and slips them on, not bothering with the laces, not bothering to put on a coat. Unlatching the door, he picks up the garbage and steps out into the snow. The cold isn't as fierce as he'd expected it to be, but he still moves quickly, prying the lid off of the huge Rubbermaid trash can with one hand and depositing the bag with the other. The fingers on the hand holding the lid start to sting from the snow. He snaps it back on and hustles back to the kitchen door and the warmth within.

Locking the door carefully behind him, he sheds his boots and runs a hand through his hair. He pads down the hallway in his socks, avoiding the creaky spots in the old, sagging floor. Reaching the bedroom, he pushes the door open slowly.

The room is brighter than the hallway, filled with moonlight that seeps over the dresser, the television, the bed. She is wrapped up in the quilt that her mother made for them when they got married, a huddled lump in the middle of the bed.

He steps closer as he begins to undress. In the moonlight, she looks younger, smoother. He wants to kiss her, but stops himself for some reason. He finishes undressing and crawls into bed with her, naked.

When he pulls back the covers, he finds her dressed in flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They never wear pajamas when they sleep at home. Frowning, he wraps his body around her so that he fits next to her like a puzzle piece. He kisses her on the cheek, gently, hoping to wake her, feeling brave. "Hey," he whispers. "I love you."

She mutters something, throwing her arm above her head, almost hitting him. "What?" he whispers, holding his breath, bringing his hand up from her hip to wrap it around her.

"I'm leaving," she mumbles, and rolls away from his arms to face the wall. He pulls away from her as though she were a hissing, sparking power line. He is terrified, unable to move, afraid as he stares up at the ceiling that she's not just talking in her sleep.

[Chilimuffin]

gods, that's good. wow. just wow.

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"Noctu, nihil pedalum pigmentum refert." - Discordelaidh

[Dano]

I wrote a nice, long critique of this last night, and tried to post it, but I was having major computer problems and it never arrived. Suffice it to say, I liked it a lot.

[jones]

Oh Gollum, you intuitive chronicler of human frailties you! Great stuff here. I'm especially enamorate of the couple's exchange before he leaves for the bar. Coolio!

take care

---jones

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"what Marie's not gonna do"
new chapters in Works & Days
a punk rock romance in words, music & art
http://www.freehomepages.com/worksanddays

[NecroFlash]

me likes very very very very much. wow.

[Oz]

This peice really gets a lot done details wise. I like the descriptions, especially that of the weather and of the man "shedding" his boots. Excellent usage. Ummm, this stands really well on its own, but are we gonna get more? I'd like... Keep up the good work!

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"What about him? What are you doing with him?"
"What you should be doing with me..."

Proud family member of Jelymo, gollum, Kelly, Dano, Jaxom27, 5Cats, Fenix and others.

I believe you can't appreciate real love until you've been burned

"Om Namaha Shivaya." ~ Dano

[Branflakes]

*drops jaw in amazement*

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Branflakes, the ninja lesbian milk getter bunny protecting flirt.
The one called "brain" and "brandiflakes" and....
I'm tired of the silent majority. Silence equals death.
Life is what you make it.
"I believe you can't control or choose your sexuality"-Savage Garden
You're going to have to deal with my ego at some point.
God never gives us more than we can handle. We just don't always know that.

A dark, black ray of sunshine.

[JaceSan]

Awesome, as usual.