Cars in Front of Houses

The cat was under the bed. The wife lay there next to the husband, awake. The husband, awake, but pretending not to be. The air was alive—the moment was pure.

She reached down his shorts and grabbed him. Nothing. He kept snoring. She let go.

“The cats under the bed,” she said.

The husband was on his last day of a sober kick. Something he did one or two weeks out of the year. Just to keep himself honest.

 The wife was a bad drunk, entertaining, but ultimately bad. She had no intention of keeping herself honest.

“I can’t sleep with the cat under the bed,” she said.

The wife had amassed a high-caliber arsenal of fear throughout her life. The spots on her hands were cancerous. The neighbors kept firearms in the house and did not take their medication. The cat was not alone under the bed. These were problems that needed to be dealt with. Problems she could not handle alone.

Without the whiskey the husband would need to lie there awake for a few hours. He’d rather sit downstairs in the quiet, but a husband and wife should sleep together. These things were important.

The wife turned on the lamp and called for the cat, unsuccessful. She poked the husband in the temple. He kept his cool.

“You know, you’re a real bastard,” she said.

He knew. 

The wife got out of bed, left the room, and came back with the broom. She jammed it under the bed. The cat screamed.

He decided to mow the lawn with a cold beer in the morning and have a nip of bourbon as a reward after he finished.

The wife pulled her nightgown to her ankles and stepped out of it. She threw it at the husband and yanked the curtains open. The neighborhood was indifferent. Cars in front of houses next to cars in front of houses stretching out into the dark. She wanted to cry but decided not to. She turned out the lamp. The husband snored.

“You’re a liar. A bastard and a liar,” she said.

The husband thought of the pistol sitting in the bottom drawer of his nightstand—but only for a moment.

She crossed the room toward the door. He stole a look as she left. Her back was painted in moonlight and sweat. She wore it well.

The cat followed her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and through the front door. The wife stood there in the driveway, delicately and deliberately, waiting for someone to notice.

The wind had stopped blowing and the moon hid behind one cloud or another. And it was just her with her cold feet and the fire in her chest. Upstairs, the husband snored honestly.

Across the street she saw balloons tied to the neighbors porch. They must've had something to celebrate. Maybe an anniversary or a baby shower. Something nice.

After a while she went back to bed, and the cat went about his business.