It was a
frog in his throat, Scout had tried to explain, that kept him from saying, “I
love you.” A frog that kept him from pouring his heart out to her. He didn’t
know what else to call the blockage that sat there, crammed between his uvula
and his larynx, shutting off all communication that might satisfy her somehow,
or fix their relationship.
He had burnt the toast again, Sally noticed, even though she had squeezed the orange juice and scrambled the eggs. She couldn’t believe that she had ever listened to this flimsy chatter of his, that she had once upon a time believed he was charmingly wounded, like a hunted bear cub crashing blindly through the forest. She had believed he just needed careful tending, some hibernation, some warmth. She knew now that he was simply incapable of behaving, well, human.
“More jam?” she asked, reaching across the table to help herself to the pepper. “Or butter?”
He used his thumb to wipe away the last of the ketchup from his plate. What a glorious day, he thought, as he stood up to clear his plate.
It was like he was always rushing, always in a hurry, Sally supposed. Probably antsy to get to his beloved car. She thought she might vomit if he made one more tender, adoring remark about his Mustang.
“Well, I’m going to see my sweet baby in the garage,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, reveling in the day of tinkering ahead of him.
“Enjoy yourself,” Sally said. She thought about the way he cracked his knuckles every morning, awakening her with the sickening sound of bones creaking and rolling all over themselves, the way he dripped water from the sink clear across the entire kitchen floor, the way he left the grease from his car under his fingernails—sometimes for days. She picked up her purse. “I really mean it. Really.”
What’s all this about? he thought, as he watched her walk out the door. He wanted to call out to her, but that would mean hours of “communication” and no Mustang. Frankly, he was tired of too much talk. He just wanted to work with his hands.
He had burnt the toast again, Sally noticed, even though she had squeezed the orange juice and scrambled the eggs. She couldn’t believe that she had ever listened to this flimsy chatter of his, that she had once upon a time believed he was charmingly wounded, like a hunted bear cub crashing blindly through the forest. She had believed he just needed careful tending, some hibernation, some warmth. She knew now that he was simply incapable of behaving, well, human.
“More jam?” she asked, reaching across the table to help herself to the pepper. “Or butter?”
He shook
his head, no, and wondered again if she was looking older or if it was just the
light. He gulped down his eggs; the Mustang was waiting. He planned to rewire
the entire dashboard. He loved to work on his car, loved the heavy feel of
solid metal under his hands, the clank clank clank of his wrench against the
cement each time he dropped it, the soft buzz of the AM radio station that
played oldies while he worked.
He used his thumb to wipe away the last of the ketchup from his plate. What a glorious day, he thought, as he stood up to clear his plate.
It was like he was always rushing, always in a hurry, Sally supposed. Probably antsy to get to his beloved car. She thought she might vomit if he made one more tender, adoring remark about his Mustang.
“Well, I’m going to see my sweet baby in the garage,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, reveling in the day of tinkering ahead of him.
“Enjoy yourself,” Sally said. She thought about the way he cracked his knuckles every morning, awakening her with the sickening sound of bones creaking and rolling all over themselves, the way he dripped water from the sink clear across the entire kitchen floor, the way he left the grease from his car under his fingernails—sometimes for days. She picked up her purse. “I really mean it. Really.”
What’s all this about? he thought, as he watched her walk out the door. He wanted to call out to her, but that would mean hours of “communication” and no Mustang. Frankly, he was tired of too much talk. He just wanted to work with his hands.
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