We have problem. Two problems actually, she said. Okay, he said, standing near foot on the kitchen floor, the warm grog of sleep, heavy on his shoulders, the smell of fresh brewed coffee everywhere. And he knew, mornings like these, when she would invite him into her thoughts that felt like she had spent three weeks thinking about, the best strategy, at 7am, in the presence of coffee, but no caffeine currently wetting the lips, is the strategy of surviving undertow, breath, don’t panic work yourself away from the center. What are they, he asked. The hot glue gun, she said. It’s been plugged in all night. Yeah, not good, he said. Wondering how he could have missed that. Nothing stays plugged in overnight unless it absolutely has to, unless the act of unplugging it would put shear forces on the column of marriage, the way in the early days when, before bed, after checking double checking and triple checking the doors and windows he would proceed to unplug all the lamps and appliances from their sockets as well, until his wife, one morning to many, entering into a dark living room, and having to reset the clock on he toaster oven yet again, he was informed that this must stop. That it is too much. That either he stop it, get help, or they were going to be stopped. From now on, she said, E. Must unplug the gun and leave it on this plate on the other side of the counter when she’s finished. Uh huh, he said. Situation solved he thought, a problem that didn’t involve pipe fixing, or appliance repair, or electrical intervention, of course, if the hot glue that his daughter used to build art projects, poured out across the counter moving slow and infernally hot across the counter, onto the floor, found their way to the curtains and ignited them in a sheet of flame, that could have been a much uglier and profoundly unsafe scenario. The coffe pot full, just behind his wife. The second problem, she said. Yeah, he said, not having yet moved from his position. Spotting the full pot of coffee behind his wife, his favorite mug beside the machine. The dog food cans, she said. There’s so much food left in them. Look how much came out when I washed them. He followed her gaze to the sink, the drain strainer, and the tiny pieces of pulverized turkey, that the dog had been eating for the last two weeks, ever since they pulled a $4000 plastic bag from his belly, still full of staples, looking like a miniature railroad track. He regarded the dog food. Waiting on the problem. Two problems she had said. The coffee machine made a quiet hissing noise, a shot of steam escaped from the top lid. I wash out the cans, she said. Okay, he said. Why don’t you wash out the cans? I do, he said. No you don’t, look at all the food in the strainer, He was looking at the strainer. Wondering if perhaps she had another exhibit. It’s expensive, she said. You need to clean out the cans. Yeah, he said, yeah, no problem. I wash out the cans, she said. Uh huh, yup. I don’t think your listening to what I am saying. What do you mean? You always get that look on your face like yeah,yeah whatever. I don’t know what your talking about. Of course you don’t, she said. Leaving the sink and striding across the kitchen to the fridge. Thehanfle of the coffee pot felt warm in his hand. He filled his favorite mug up to the brim. Petted the head of the bad Labrador, framed in the giant , beaten up cone, who had come into the kitchen to search for crumbs. Welcome to Saturday big fella, he said.

He came to work late everyday. Every single one. From his very first day – late. And late everyday after that. No story. No excuses. Just not there. Gone. Nobody to serve the customers who wandered by Joe’s butcher, who would look at the sausages and sirloins, rump roasts, covered in the refrigerated cases. And after peering over the counter, just to double check, and indeed finding no one there they would shrug their shoulders. Say “I guess it’s closed?” To their companions in Greek, and danish, and Hungarian, and of course German. A half hour later, he would hop off the bus, recently shaven, hair slicked back, freshly showered, a venti cup of dark roast in hand, ready to start his day.

He would just appear. Smelling like bourbon and sawdust. His beard scraggly, knotted, like he had slept on it for a month. Nobody knew how to get hold of him. Nobody knew if he was coming, and then, poof – just like that, he would be here. A bus ticket in the back pocket of his jeans. An 18-hour ride from Sakanakwah Falls, Louisville Mudflats, or the parts of Tallahassee that nobody should be allowed to live in.

He could throw. There was no denying it. Nobody in their right mind could say that he couldn’t hurl. Couldn’t throw smoke, couldn’t make the ball shimy, shimy, slide right past you. Looking small as a penny, 90 miles an hour. Always just a little outside or just a little inside, higher or lower than where you swear it should have been. People said it was cause of those fingers. Those long dam digits that went on and on. Freakish. Fucked up fingers. That pressed themselves into the seams. That rode up against them. that draped themselves over top. As he released. His wrist would snap. His front leg would step way off the mound. The Ball finding the pocket of catchers glove. A mighty thump, crisp and loud and unmistakable. Could be heard clean as a whistle in the 15th row.

Black as a raven. Smooth as a bullet. Eight cylinders hiding under the hood. Twin turbos. 600 horses, 550 pounds of torque. Napa leather, red as Friday night lipstick. And the way it growls, oh the way it growls: guttural, primal, pure disdain! Always parked facing the street, ready to launch. Sure, she knew cars like this existed. Maybe, in the estates of Gleneagles, or Summer ridge, or Queens Gardens, certainly not in her neighborhood. Not in the parking pads of semi detached homes, 3 bedrooms, one and a half baths, 2 jobs, 2 kids, 1 Labrador. The land of CRVs, Pilots and MDXs, blazers and explorers and suburbans. Q7s and Carolas. Sure, there is the pink Bentley. Everybody knows the pink Bentley. And, yes, a smattering of porshes: boxster, 911 and two cayennes. But this beast? It did not belong here.

What this key for? she asked. She held it in her hand at the end of her outstretched arm. I don’t know, he said. C’mon, reallly, what’s it for? I honestly don’t know. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. So you have a key on your key chain and you don’t know what it’s for? No idea. I see she said, and dropped the keychain in the wood bowl on the glass shelves by the front door. How could you you have a key and not knows what it’s for? I don’t know. Maybe it just got carried over? Carried over from what? When we first moved in we had so many doors, you remember? Maybe it was from one of those? But how can you not know? You should know this. It worries me. This worries you? Yes, it worries me. A key on my key chain worries you? Why? Cause if you don’t know this, if you aren’t paying enough attention I start to wonder else what aren’t the you paying attention to and I get concerned. Because i don’t know what one key is for? When you don’t know, then I feel like I have to know and I manage everything I this house already. I can’t manage your key ring also. Until two minutes ago, you didn’t even know it was there! That’s not the the point, is it? I don’t fucking know. Is it? The point? I have no idea where we are right now.

Tonight you fell asleep, head on pillow, chin nestled in the fleshy web, thumb in one cheek, index finger on the other, second third and fourth fingers cascading off your jaw. You passed out contemplating the absurd or the profound, maybe both, perhaps neither. Frozen, sorting pieces of the puzzle, some that you can see so clearly and some that seem close but are yet so, so far away. Frozen trying to ascertain the meaning in an argument consulted, perverted circular, like a Celtic knot circling in on itself, forever starting and ending, and starting again, no discernible beginning middle or end, just a loop with no vagaries, no off ramps, endless. Frozen, trying to sort out so much of the unknown, trying to fill the gaps with ideas, hypotheses, postulations, never quite fitting right, perpetually just a little off center. I fold the corner of the page and and close Ann of Green Gables, Marilla just having presented Ann with sensible dresses that she had bought, to Ann’s chagrin, without puffed sleeves, Kiss your forehead. Tell you I love you. That you are loved. Always and forever.

You smell good. Damn, you do. You really do. Don’t sound so surprised. No, I mean you always smell good, but…But what? But this is, I don’t know, different. Different how? It’s like fresh and citrusy, maybe, sort of tropical undertones perhaps. Tropical undertones? Yeah, I mean, sure, don’t you think? I hadn’t really thought about it. What is it? Is it new? It’s face cream and face wash. I use it every night. No, I don’t think you do. Are you seriously telling me this is the first time your smelling it? Yeah, that’s what I am saying, it’s really good. God, you are so observant. Are you going to wear it more often? I think you should. Yeah, I’ll get right on it. It’s like the air when you eat outside and it’s not late and the breeze is blowing into shore and the cicadas are defining and the sand’s all lite up and you can see the crabs walking in and out of the shadows. Are you still talking? I thought we were having a conversation. Go away, you are starting to annoy me. Can I smell you again?

He used to stay up late. Feel not at all tired as the clock ticked from 10:59 to 11:00 and from 11:59 to 12:00 and from 12:59 to one. He’d Flick the cable channels half heartedly watching bad weeknight TV. If he was lucky, ultimate fighting or perhaps hbo boxing, “Let’s get ready to ruuuuuummmmbbble!”He would pour himself a large bowl of cereal, sit back, savor the sugary crunchy goodness of carbs, the cold milk. When the fight was over, the victors hand raised by the referee, the fighter interviewed by the ringside reporter, he would make his way to bed. After rinsing his bowl, he would slide his feet along the thin cut hard wood flooring off the dining room that would squeak in protest under his weight, and he would climb the stairs his placing his feet as close to the wall on each stair that would release a small groan as he ascended to the second floor, at the end of the hall he would push the slightly open door further open and the hinges would let out a squealing request for oil. He would undress in the dark. Slide under the sheets. His wife asleep on her back, her breaths falling soft, warm and gentle summer rain.

She’s come undone. Not always apparent. Not suddenly noticible, like a shoelace, once knotted up firm, and now look, untied. It happened more subtlety than that. Or, in retrospect, perhaps not subtlety at all. I have come to believe it was there the whole time and somehow, someway we didn’t see it. Like invisible ink, it hid and we would just stare, knowing something was there, indelibly etched just under the surface, a clue, forever scaring the white paper, the ink plunging through its pores, corrupting the cotton fibers, bloating the bleached wood pulp, till its heavy as jacket pockets, full of cold stones, carefully curated, collected for years, the one she wears as she wades into the water alone.