Exploration

A 1st person persona narrator who uses third person
to tell a story with intense emotion to maintain distance.

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	And then suddenly, through my frustration, I could see her, in the 
memory of her telling.
  
	Just the two of them in the room, as she started out the door.  The 
soft light of early morning through the lace curtains.  The sounds of her 
shouts, his explanation still fading behind her.  Five steps down the stairs, 
she whirled around at the second gunshot.  It was the one after the first, a 
new reprimand on her lips.  But this time, when she reached the room, her 
husband was falling backwards onto the bed.  And she stared as the gun slipped 
from his hand to the floor.  She grabbed his hand, kicking the gun away.  
Questions of what and why and how flew out of her mouth, but he had already 
gone pale.  There was no answer, just an apology.  He touched his belly and her
hand followed his, firmly pulling it away.

	Blood’s copper smell seemed to fill the room and she pulled up his 
shirt to keep it clean.  She slid her other hand under the shirt just to see, 
to feel how bad it was.  Not much she said to him.  Just a little.  He chuckled.  
She reached for the phone and punched in the number.  She forced the calm 
needed to get them to come and then lay the phone down.

	She knew there was nothing to do, not a way for her to stop that seep.
She knew.  She lay back, snuggled up and formed herself to his side.  Her 
pelvis locked against his hip, her breasts flattened against his arm, her eyes 
closed against his cheek.  With one arm under his head, the other caressed his 
stubbled cheek, his neck soft with its folds of age.  She traced his ear with 
the tips of her fingers, rubbed his shoulder and her thumb and fingers re-
explored the crevices around his collarbone.  Perfect.  His tears joined hers 
on the bridge of her nose.

	She heard a small whispered plea.
  
	She opened her eyes, lifted herself up on her elbow and kissed him like
there was no tomorrow.  She knew.  She wanted a last time, so she kissed him 
and her tongue touched his soft lips and slick teeth.  He caressed her back and
weakly pulled her to him.  She grabbed the front of his shirt and without 
looking she quickly unbuttoned it.  She ran her fingers through that hair, 
spiders in the grass.  Quickly, before it was too late, they skipped across his
belly, leaping gracefully over the bottomless hole, but wetting their toes, 
leaving tracks on his belt, his buttons and his zipper.  She touched him, he 
jumped in response.  She cuddled up closer and held him until the end of time.
And then he sighed as his hand slipped from her back.

	Pounding feet on the stairs.  And there she was and he was not.

	And now, six months later, when you stare out the window at Denny’s and
you can’t choose between Coke and tea, or mashed and fried, I can sometimes 
look at this and remember to not be angry.
	 
Kathleen Speck
01/31/09