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In the Sauce

It wasn't the hard slaps, not even the one that pushed her tooth nearly through her lip, or the purple eye that turned yellow and light green from the hard back hand when it turned out his knuckles were bleeding. It wasn't the mornings when he'd be sitting reading the paper, relaxed as a big cat and suddenly turn the page onto something, a score, a statement, even once an ad for men's underwear and get 'annoyed' and smash a mug of coffee against the wall. No, the flesh wounds, hers and his, were easily iced, and coffee didn't stain if you got to it right away. It wasn't even the aftermath of such times, when he'd sulk and blame, blame whatever he'd done on how much he loved her, or the tone of her voice or the way the whole world was just unbelievably stupid. It wasn't the hours of tears, his head in her lap, or the way she had to tell him then, over and over again, that he was really a good man and he should not buy a gun, or take a butcher knife, or stick his head in the oven, or jump off a bridge. After fifteen years all of it blurred into one monotonous familiar hum. It was, after all, the sauce. He said, it needed "something else" and she realized so did she.

Story by:

Pearl Ketover Prilik

submitted at 5:55pm

3 July 2011

Pearl Ketover Prilik's web: