Spiraling down to the surface of sanity, Grace found my hand and I leaned to her. This is my ear dear and these are your lips and I touched them one-fingered and one at a two at a both at a time.

Where did you go, was it Denver again? Was it Hong, was it Kong, have you been to Hanoi? I have lain here forever, for ever so long, John, for are you not John?

I am he.

Such a grammarly fellow, she managed to chuckle then spasms of spittle and coughs by the carton so gently I raised her, percussing her back and possessing her front and consulting the Timex that sat on the ticked on the buzzed on the table beside. She coughed thirty seconds and squeezing my fingers she coughed thirty more, I was shamed by my begging her Grace take a breath take a rest take my head in your hands take my varsity jacket we’ll dance in the moonlight and I’ll spike your punch spike your wine spike your heart take it slow, girl.

At midnight she lucidly landed again and asked John what’s the news what’s the buzz what’s the paperwork hidden inside of that burgundy leather you gave me our first anniversary. Call this romantic? I challenged you laughing and planning to take you to bed tell me what are you working on?

Oh, I said, nothing but this quarter’s syllabi.

Syllabi Salazar, Grace grinned pronouncing, emerged from the Solo Saloon on a bender, his mustaches bending, his cowboy hat aerodynamic ascending and quickdrawed his Colts from their Holstein-hide holsters Apaches he cried I will drive them from God bless America! God damn the woman she laughed at me played with me twirling my cowlick I kissed her as if we were fifty again and were sane as a sunburst. Goddamn.

And once again: e. e. e. cummings this quarter she queried and querulous I said no I said just two e’s Grace the man only had two. Oh you know he only used two she insisted and when was the last time you diddled me doodled me done me in John, have I wrestled the passion clear out of you, gobbled you up in my greed? Oh so wanton I’ve been such a tart and your harlot whenever you chose I have only been holes to you, holes in your heart.

Her breasts were so withered so sere when I kissed them.

The doctor, a weary-looking man in green scrubs, said, “I’m very sorry. Your wife passed away at three thirty-six this morning. There was nothing left for us to do. And frankly, nothing left to do it to. She’s in a better place now.”

I said, “No, she isn’t.” And walked out into the gray, silent morning.

Bob Arter lives and writes in Southern California, where mockingbirds war with blue jays for ideal nesting locales and apricots. His work has appeared, or will soon enough, in Lit Pot, Zoetrope All-Story Extra, Absinthe Literary Review, Cock's Crow Press, Gator Springs Gazette, Painted Moon Review, and Night Train.

This piece was first published in INK POT #4 - 2004, a literary journal.

Send the URL for this work to a friend!

°