You’re not dying

Are you ok, his wife asks, watching him feel the contours if his face, what are you doing. Nothing, he says, nothing. The tips of his fingers press against one side of his upper jaw, then the other, seeking abnormalities, imbalances, signs. None today though. Not now. Not yet. The stubble, she asks, is that it? When did you shave last anyway? I don’t actually know, he says. So not it’s not the stubble, she said. No, it’s, you know, I am just checking. Checking for what? What are you checking for? He wishes he could tell her. He wishes he had a way to make her understand. But her brain doesn’t work like that. He knows she has never done it. He knows she probably never will. He has known that for a long time. Possibly from the second he met her. I’m just making sure everything is all right. Oh my god, seriously?!? What do you mean? You’re not fucking dying! You and my sister, the two of you, Jesus! It’s good to, you know, be safe. Please go somewhere else. And he does. He always does. He rounds the corner to the kitchen. Now all the way out of sight. He presses his his index finger against his right upper jaw, then his left, just to be sure.