Husband and Wife

Mid-March, when all the world’s a salt-and-pepper slush. The husband and the wife sit sunken deep within a caramel cream couch, sated yet adrift. The TV news has a reporter reporting from some somewhere the couple’s never been to and never shall be, somewhere people must eat cookies made out of dirt to survive. The anchorwoman’s face flickers and dims briefly before going supernova: the market closed slightly higher today.

“We should have a baby,” the wife announces.

“Yeah?” the husband replies.

“Don’t you want one?” she wonders.

“I never thought of it that way,” he admits. “What kind of baby shall we have?”

“One that’s beautiful, I hope,” she sighs. “Marilyn had a baby last year. It came out all blue and wrinkly. Horrid thing. Poor Marilyn.”

“What did she do with it?” he asks.

She looks up from the depths of the cushion, peering at him with narrowed eyes.

Weeks later, the wife gives birth to a puddle of streaking crimsons and lush browns, crystal clear spurts and bruised blues. The husband’s friends bring him cigars, patting him hard but uneasily on the back. Marilyn visits, too, bearing a new blanket she’s knitted. It reads: “Bless This Mess.”

“Can you believe her?” the wife snarls once Marilyn leaves. “This blanket doesn’t match the nursery’s color scheme. She knows that!”

“You think she’s jealous?” the husband asks.

She gasps. “You don’t think—” She stops and puts her finger over her lips, gesturing him to sshhh. Her eyes balloon, becoming far too wide for her face.

“Parenting doesn’t come out of a book,” her mother used to say. “It’s on-the-job training.” Mother was right. The bassinet, they quickly realize, is no place for a puddle, no matter how precious the puddle. So where to put it, then?

“Why not keep it in the bed at night? Between us?” he offers, meekly.

“Sure,” she intones, elongating the syllable. Her eyes are red and blazing, like infected egg whites. “That’s a brilliant idea. And then one night you’ll rollover on top of it, and then what?”

He has no answer. Sheepishly he starts to extend an arm out, to comfort her, before abandoning the idea. His friends warned him about this: once the baby comes, everything changes.

They end up pressing it between sleeves in a photo album. Friends and family visit, doting over the little special spatter.

“But look how dry it is on paper,” one aunt coos. “How flat.”

“They grow so quickly,” another answers, and everyone nods knowingly. Later on Marilyn pops by. She’s just found out she’s pregnant again.

“When’re you due?” the wife asks warily.

“Next Thursday,” Marilyn beams. After everyone leaves the couple plops down together on the couch.

“Can you believe her?” she says.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I met the new father.”

“Yeah?” she asks, perking up, hopeful.

“Oh yeah. He’s hideous. Total train wreck. Shorter than the last guy, too.”

Relieved, she curls up into him and sinks deeper into the cushion.

—matthew miranda

How to get YOUR FLASH FICTION IN ARTVOICE! In the Margins occasionally features flash fiction by local writers. The flash fiction editor is Forrest Roth. Submissions running 500 words or less can be sent by e-mail to avflashfiction@yahoo.com or by mail to Forrest Roth, Flash Fiction Editor, Artvoice, 810 Main St., Buffalo, NY 14202. Please include a SASE to have manuscripts returned.