Coyotes at night, making the sound of a child, or was that a child making the sound of a coyote? She’s settling on a cover photo for her album, having narrowed it down to one of three scenes shot in extreme fisheye: one shows her and her husband, one her by herself and one a row of mailboxes with a little girl standing in front of them, waving a bright yellow flag. She is squinting through a loupe inspecting small prints. Why hadn’t she just asked the label to send over larger images? Because Bryan worked there, that was why, and she had, for years now, been unable to make any demands on him other than that he continue to love her. That was more than enough. That was more than more than enough. She remembered sitting with him in a bar when nearly everyone else had gone. This was the first night they had met. She was putting on an Eastern European accent. He knew it was fake, and she knew that he knew, but she kept it on anyway because she saw that it pleased him. That night, the first night, but much later, they had climbed up on wall by the river and flailed their arms like they could fly or were about to fall. That night, still the first night, but even later, she had held her head close to his ear and breathed out a lullaby even though there was no thought of either of them sleeping. The years since: love, hate, weddings for both of them to different people, a second wedding for him to a third person, cars, homes, kids, one moment of sweet backsliding in the back room of a party at Palos Verdes, gentle laughter drifting up from both of them to perfume the room. She knew in a flash that the girl with the flag was the right image for the album. What did that hue of yellow represent if not hope? The child howled in assent.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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