L Mari Harris
All of This Is Temporary
The couple at the table next to the man and wife are arguing. The wife shushes the husband when he tries to get their daughters’ attention, their food untouched, their heads pressed together, as they keep replaying some video on the older daughter’s phone.
“Hey, I want to listen,” the wife whispers.
“Lucy, don’t tell me to shut up.”
“There you go again,” and the wife turns her ear back to the couple.
The wife gathers the man sells insurance. The woman with him says she expects more, needs more. The man is growing frustrated, maybe even a little angry, clenching and unclenching his hands. The man keeps telling the woman policies don’t sell themselves, that selling involves creating and nurturing relationships, while the woman picks at her salad and occasionally rolls her eyes, until the man’s fist pounds their table. The woman’s mouth freezes open in mid-sentence. The husband’s and wife’s drink glasses splosh in little tidal waves.
“Ignore them,” the husband says. “Let’s just relax and try to make the best of this.”
The man at the table next to the husband and wife has the bluest eyes the wife has ever seen.
Their daughters hit replay on the video and laugh at all the same parts. Their food is growing cold.
###
For months now, the husband has been trying to tell the wife about his dreams. Paper skies, torn at the edges. Dead trees, leafless, brittle, the bark peeling in strips. A house surrounded by overgrown weeds, curtains billowing through broken glass panes. A swing dangling and twisting from one chain. I don’t understand what they mean, they must mean something. The husband hangs his head, morning light spreading across the floor, dividing the room.
###
When their daughters were still in grade school, the husband and wife rented a beach house in Mexico for a week. The girls followed the husband everywhere, their heads bent down as they all looked for seashells and crabs barely bigger than quarters. The wife watched them from her chair, the sun burning the top of her head and shoulders. She was jealous, watching that easy closeness. But the wife knew one day the husband and their daughters would all stand at opposite ends of a room, unsure of what to do with their hands, unwilling to lift their heads, as if they were meeting each other for the first time.
###
The husband has been yelling at their daughters more, their flat iron and hair dryer cords tripping him in the bathroom, his hands covered in makeup they leave open on the sink counter.
But these dreams, the husband says. These dreams, stopping just before the disparate images culminate, little fissures appearing under his feet, black clouds rolling toward him faster than he can run, wind gusting, stinging his eyes. Until the husband sits up, amazed how quiet and still it is, amazed to see the wife, a little spot of drool on her pillow, the blue walls of their bedroom, a blue they chose together before their daughters were out of diapers, when everything felt infinite.
###
The couple at the table next to the husband and wife are no longer speaking. The man cuts his steak, chews. The woman finishes her drink, motions for another.
The husband tries to settle into the quiet, but he sees the wife still watching the couple out of the corner of her eye. The husband wants to say something but is afraid the wife will misunderstand him, will accuse him of never knowing when to just let it go and let people do what they want.
The wife feels the husband’s eyes on her, but she refuses to look over at him. Instead, the wife watches their daughters, how easy they laugh, how they notice nothing around them, unlike herself, who notices everything: the tang of Thousand Island dressing; the earthy scent of baked potatoes crusted in salt. The cigarette smoke the wife can smell on the waitress’s polyester uniform as she pauses to ask if they need anything else before moving on.
###
The husband dreams feral dogs are in the front yard. He is panicked, unable to find their daughters. The wife’s car is parked in the driveway, but she doesn’t answer when he shouts her name. The dogs edge closer, their eyes wet, tails down. He yells and yells, until he wakes up, cold sweat breaking out along his hairline.
The husband says Feel my heart and puts the wife’s hand on his chest. He is convinced these dreams add up to something. But what, he doesn’t know. The wife chooses not to tell the husband what she suspects, that all of this is temporary.
###
What the wife suspects is without their daughters, the husband and wife will find their own rooms to stake their claims to. Maybe the one hundred year old maple will uproot, taking out half the house. Maybe cells are morphing or artery walls narrowing. Maybe the rivers are rising. Maybe someone has already been introduced to kindle the inevitable.
###
Maybe next week or the week after, the wife will make a list of all the insurance agents in town. It will be easy to find which one is the man. The wife will drive to the man’s office. Will wait until she sees his receptionist leave for lunch. The bell over the door will momentarily startle the wife, the summer heat on her back as she pauses in the doorway. A fleeting thought of Mexico. Of her bedroom walls. The man with the blue eyes will appear from around the corner. Will smile and beckon the wife in. She will ask the man about worse-case scenarios. Something about to happen.
L Mari Harris
L Mari Harris’s stories have been chosen for the Wigleaf Top 50 and Best Microfiction. She lives in the Ozarks and is currently at work on a linked flash fiction collection about the region. Follow her @LMariHarris and read more of her work at lmariharris.wordpress.com.