Wounded

She says this doesn’t feel real, that the kissing is wrong. She says so many odd things that I’ve come to ignore most of them. Yesterday she left me a note in lipstick on my windshield. It said, “The world’s moving too fast. See if you can change refrigerator light.”

Her hair shimmers in my hands now like copper silk, her eyes staring wide the color of wheat grass. I loved her once and I tell myself I can learn to love her again.

The wound she left me with sometimes follows me to work or hangs in between sheets of rain when I’m out on a run. His name was David, same as our son. He sells cars. I pretended to be a customer once. He was slick but charming, used citrus cologne and tied a full windsor.

After the fake car buying, I became obsessed with this man who could love a woman as random-headed as my Claire.
I followed him home.

On the passenger seat, I had a case containing a pistol I’d just purchased. The gun was silver, the color of her lover’s hair. It was heavy, too, and loaded. My hand did not tremble when I picked it up and took aim.

He mowed the lawn wearing headphones and a frond-print shirt. Baby-faced for an older guy. White socks with sandals.

I waited until he cut the last row. I imagined a hole the size of a cherry splitting his forehead dead center. Saw the spout of crimson oil gushing down his face. Blood creasing his teeth.
Just as I was about to shoot, a little giggling blonde girl ran out and jumped into his lap and he drove her on the riding mower while he made blubbering noises, she screaming, “Fast, Grandpa. Go fast!”

As I drove away, I realized it wouldn’t be satisfying enough to kill him. I’d be caught and thrown in jail, and it’d be as if he won anyway.

The following day, I left for work but went to a shopping mall and waited on a bench because none of the stores were open at that hour. Old people in jogging suits walked routes that looped the entire space. They looked preoccupied, hair the same shade as his, as the other David. I saw my grim self reflected in the glass. I looked thin and lost.

At noon, I went to the book store and stood back by the Anthology section. Less than half of the metal folding chairs were filled. I guessed most of the attendants were store employees.

I watched her take up the book like a bird she might set free. I saw its familiar glossy orange jacket cover, the title in white—“I Refuse”—then, Claire Donegal.

My wife cleared her throat and began. “She would do this dark thing not once but many times, never refusing him a thing, and the other one, that man would have to learn how to love her again.”
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Author: Len Kuntz (on Facebook)
Blog: People You Know By Heart