He sat in his house thinking about her house. He sat in his chair thinking of her chair, and how it was different from the chair he owned. He sat by his window thinking about her window, and how it was near enough to a tree that in a brisk breeze the branches moved into it in Morse code, and in higher winds the noise was like that of a fiend trying to enter the house. He sat under his portrait thinking of her portrait, which captured the wide gray insistence of her eyes, the serious mouth that did not take itself seriously (it looked ready to smile or as if it had just slid out of a smile), the way her hair bounced back light like vinyl did. He had painted it when he was younger. He had given it to her as a gift. She had taken it with hands that were so steady that he knew that she was making an effort to conceal her excitement, and that filled him with terror at what might be next for them. But she was, above all, loyal, and would not change her life for him. She was happy being miserable with her husband, who unironically wore a glasses chain and said “The Cream” instead of just Cream when rhapsodizing about his favorite song ever, “White Room.”
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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