Story Idea: Marriage (A Draft)

Before he leaves, he lays out a pair of dark socks on the manufactured quilt, not one made by a long-since-deceased relative, whose tales are recounted occasionally, a thread in the American fabric, which is connected to this family. No it was one of those quilts that had been packaged in an noxious plastic container, a plastic zipper surrounding its side, so that the quilt could be returned, and stored away.

She wondered the sense in storing the quilt in the toxic container. Certainly, over time the plastic would break down, grow dried out, yellow, and stain the quilt, given it the same yellowed color, like urine. And when they retrieved the quilt when a guest came to stay with them, like her cousins, would the stain be discovered once the quilt was unfolded, and what thoughts might the guest have.

The socks were laid upon the bed with exactitude, with purpose, one on top of the other, crossed. He had laid them there for her. She knew that without having talked with him. It was a kind of secret, nonverbal language they shared. He would take an item place it in an unusual place, a place where the item didn’t belong, and, by implication, giving her a message that some action was required.

He would place a bill from Harry’s Department Store on her placement, the bill itself laying on top of the envelope it was delivered in to tell her not only to pay the bill, but that she had spent too much on the dress identified in the list of charges. He might place a dirty dish on the counter top where she spent time cooking her meals to advise her that she needed to wash the dishes. Sometimes he was even more direct, running his finger through the dust that had collected on the coffee tables and shelves, forming the short message, “Dust me,” which would be clever if it weren’t so venomous and accusatory.

This morning he left the socks for her, crossed, so that she could see that the socks made a match. In the top sock, she could see that there was hole where his toe must have rubbed open. They were black socks, ones he only wore for work.

He only wore colored socks for work. His white socks were reserved for leisure time. His life was segregated and simple like that. One set of clothing for work, which he never wore when he was not working, button up shirts, belts, leather shoes. A set of underwear briefs, plain colored, grey, black, or blue. He owned a number of ties, all conservative, unexceptional.

She once purchased him a Christmas tie, which had little candy canes as a pattern, the candy canes so small as to be indiscernible unless you inspect the tie up close. She had given it to him as an early Christmas, to get him the holiday mood at a time when he was particularly moody, placed it at his place at the breakfast table.

Initially, he looked at the box with mild interest, and then place it to the side of his place mat to make room for the daily bowl of apple cinnamon oatmeal she fed him along with his small cup of orange juice and cup of coffee.

“What’s this?” she asked, feigning surprise. “Did Santa Claus come early this year?”

He shrugged.

“Aren’t you going to open your gift?” And she handed it to him, with bright eyes, placing all her hopes in the box.

He took it from her, carefully unwrapping the gift, and found the tie within. “Thank you, Sweetie,” he said flatly, and rose slightly from his seat and planted a dry kiss on her cheek.

And then that was all that was said about the tie. However, he left the tie on the table, forgotten and abandoned. She didn’t move it from the table, hoping that he would one day wear it to work or even at home, some recognition of her thoughtfulness. But after a week, the tie still sat there until she picked it up and placed it with his other ties in their bedroom.

He had very definite ideas about who he was supposed to be. She thought he was nothing but hard.

There had been a time when they first were together when he was not the harsh man he was now. He had laughing lines which radiated from his eyes, like little lightening bolts emanating from the sparks that lit in his eyes. Especially when he told a joke.

Once, he told her that he had been in a serious car accident when he was knocked unconscious, and, that as a result, he had a knot on the back of his head which had formed. He recalled that while unconscious he had dreams of being a dog. She had fallen for the trap, had asked to feel the bump, which he allowed her to do. She reached with tentative fingers, like she was touching the most delicate thing, as if she was too sudden, felt to roughly, it would collapse beneath her finger tips.

He took her hand to help her find the lump, his fingers solid and warm, spreading a gentle sparkle across her skin and warmth in her belly. His hand led her hand to the back of his head where she could feel the landscape of his skull underneath the stubble of his roughly shaved head. She gently rubbed his two extrusions parallel to where his eyes sat in his head lightly following their shape.

“Ruff!” he roared suddenly, shocking her into withdrawing her hand back, as if an angry animal had sought to bite it. And he roared with laughter, and her too, when she realized he was having her on.

And she kissed him deeply, as if his humor and cleverness was a well from which she was drawing out life.

She stared down at the socks and wondered if she had withdrawn all the life from that well.

…