He didn’t see her feet from the doorway. The bathmat had covered them, and her fall was quiet in her new terrycloth robe. He didn’t hear her cry muffled in the soft downy comfort he brought back for her.
“I’m getting a yougurt,” he causually tossed over his shoulder heading down the stairs.
She could hear with incredible precision his left hand’s fingers running along the maple bannister. She couldn’t move. Her speech came out struggled and with spittle pushing out her mouth.
Everything became light, like looking at the sun through thirty clear plastic bags. Including the bit about suffocating. She felt everything collapse in.
Cry. She wanted to cry.
Bali scootered down stairs, and the tiles felt cool on the bottom of his feet. He bitched and moaned that it cost too much, it was showy, and that the neighbors would disapprove.
She was right. The tiles are nice.
He sighed when he thought this. A loud-long sigh of every person that knows the score. That and the plants on the windowbox shelf needed watering.
“So much to do everyday sometimes I just want to lay down and never get up again,” and he finished with a spoon of vanilla. This with the cool Italian tiles combined into a personal moment of ecstasy for Bali.
These never last long. They sit stacked up like a cheap cabin or cardboard furniture. It crumbles the moment you place the last piece that you believe will bring you happiness.
