I can hear her crashing around downstairs, in the kitchen, opening cupboards, letting them slam closed, dropping something on the floor—sounds like a spoon or maybe that long-handled knife, dull as a toothbrush, but a wedding present from somebody’s aunt, who knows whose—well, she does. She remembers stuff like that. Personal trivia, I call it, so insignificant that nobody else knows or cares or can check up on when she says, oh, yes, that candy dish—who has candy dishes anymore—that candy dish came from Sylvia’s house. She wrapped it up for our wedding, didn’t think I’d notice. Here she would laugh knowlingly, to let you know she noticed everything, every little thing, every goddamned little thing. Nothing escaped her.
Another crash downstairs. More like a thump. Something big out of her hands now. The toaster? A loaf of frozen bread? Meat she’s thawing for the dinner I’ll cook?
When I ask her she’ll look at me with those wide girl eyes, bluer than the day I met her, magnified by the specs and say, “What, My Love? I didn’t drop anything.”
I could point out the wet spot on the floor or the shards depending on what it is—but I won’t. What, My Love? says it all.
© 2013 Kathleen Coskran