• Somebody's tea is gettin' cold

    I got out of bed warily. A shiver crawled over my skin, changing my flesh to gooseflesh and making my nipples perk up as my feet touched the floor.

    the faucet makes way too much noise

    I slowly moved to the door. The morning was grey with its dullness, rounded and blunt, tasteless as cream of wheat. I moved through the cream of wheat world and walked into the hallway.

    is she stayin' out late with
    boys?

    The barren floor froze my skin, but it didn't matter, not this morning. This morning, this morning, it bludgeoned me in the head like a policeman's baton. I sat at the marble counter where she first proposed to me, her usual early morning cup of tea sitting there like a beacon, cold and untouched.

    What if she never comes home?

    She did this a few nights a week, disappeared late at night and wasn't back until morning. I told myself I could stand it if she was cheating, I would endure if she didn't want me, but the truth rang as clear as the water in the vase on the table.

    The night could last forever

    I needed her like air. She was everything. What if, one time, she never came home? What would I do? I breathed in the grey and laid my head on my arms on the counter, my thin hair stringy and dirty. I'd stayed up half the night waiting. I'd stayed up a lot of nights waiting. I didn't think I had another night in me.

    If she never comes home, what will I do?

    The door was suddenly kicked open, and a flushed-faced her walked in. Her coat was bundled tight around her like always. She had such bad circulation. "Babe, babe, look--"

    I, I couldn't sleep at all last night

    Bang. Just once, but that was all it took. Her body crumpled softly to the ground, and in her hand, a flower. My flower.

    I'm tossing and turning like some old ghost
    is trying to get my goat

    Not just one flower, but many. A bunch of little, brightly-colored rare flowers, the impatiens psittacina, the parrot flower. They were illegal to export from their native Thailand. They were my favorite flower, about impossible to obtain, and there she was, with a small bundle in her hand.

    Afraid of the time on my hands

    I fell to my knees and clutched her hand. "No, no hon, please, wake up, wake up," I hissed in her ear, tucked the hair behind it. I pulled her head into my lap and wiped the blood away from her mouth, trying not to scream or cry or explode. It all seemed possible.

    So much I can do, but I can't

    How could I think this wonderful creature was cheating on me? How could I think she was anything but the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me? My long, thin fingers shook as I cradled her pale face in my hands, kissed her fading rosy cheeks, touched my forehead to hers.

    Without her, I don't have a plan

    Then I got up. I breathed deep. I walked to the counter where the pistol still lay, warm and smoking lightly. I watched the tendrils curl and vanish, then picked it up, suddenly noticing its weight in my hand where I hadn't before. I placed it against the soft, tender flesh of my temple. I breathed deep. Time to wake up.

    When's she comin' home?

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    This is a short story inspired by a few songs by the Ditty Bops, mostly the songs "When's She Coming Home" and "Wake Up".

    Content © C.A. Gregory 2009