[Cadaverous Pallor]

She breathed stale air and considered her outdated view of what her life would be.

He was gone. The radio was silent. Light fell from one lamp, in one corner. The rest of the house didn't breathe without her breath, didn't exist without her touch.

Curled up into as small a ball as possible on the long couch, she clutched her own skin as if to ward off a chill. The token light slid off her arm. She stared into the void of her own house, as if a demon could crawl out of the shadows at any time and tear into her.

The thought bubbled to the surface: The bills were paid. He wrote the checks just a week and a half ago, sitting at the old-but-not-antique desk they'd bought for just that purpose. Right....there. Although alone, she almost felt compelled to point to the darkened wall where the desk sat. Pens and post-its and bill receipts lay on it's small surface, window dressing for a life not lived, background on a TV show.

The insurance would pay for everything. He had a great policy through the city. They're not kidding when they say the best jobs are with the government, she thought helplessly. She hadn't even known about the life insurance but it all came to light quickly after they found his bloodied car.

The bills were paid, she thought again. Today's and tomorrow's and the day after that's. The other driver had taken care of them by killing both himself and her husband in a grisly enough way that the insurance company had to pay out.

Guilt tried to rise, tried to infect…was it she that was trying to feel guilty? She went to work, he went to work. It was Tuesday; where else could they go? Who could say, “Don’t go, something will happen?” “Take the day off and let’s go to the beach.” “Honey, could you take a different route today?”

She hadn’t known. The guilt didn’t come.

What now? She silently asked the empty house. Now that the reason for so much space has been sucked out of the master bedroom, 2.5 baths and ample living room, now what? Could she scrub her expectations from the walls and start over? Could she bring another man in here and make love to him and bear his children? How much time and repainting and alcohol would that take?

She looked over her stillborn life and shook her head.

Whoever she was now, she wasn’t this person, wasn’t that person. She thought of signing the mortgage papers less than a year ago. She thought of her upward-moving job and the waiting game she’d been playing. She thought of how he’d loved to nibble on her jaw when they ****ed, and how she was sure she’d dump the pill in about 6 months.

She thought of hermit crabs and migratory birds and the proverbial Phoenix.



Phoenix, she thought. I’ve never been to Phoenix.