“You’re just being sensitive.”
“Ok.”
The ritual complete, the conversation over, she turned away and went back upstairs. Alone in the bedroom, she examined the marks on her palms: the tiny red crescent moons danced across the backdrop of criss-crossing lines. They would disappear soon, and her head, heart, and life lines would remain, etched perfectly and permanently. Making an impression was very hard.
He followed her into the bedroom. It was late – it could not be otherwise. Their little talks were reserved for afters: after work, after dinner, after clean-up.
He moved things around. Not around the house (not anymore, she didn’t think) but around her. He moved the sense of things, the core of what was and what wasn’t. He moved what couldn’t be. It was magic, she realised, as she watched him get ready for bed. He held the truth in one hand and the opposite in the other. He passed them back and forth, switching them swiftly, slickly, before throwing them down before her; every day he dealt her an invisible two-card Monte. Her bets were always on the Queen of Hearts, on truth. But he inverted truth, passed it back and forth, and flipped over the grinning Joker.
“Are you happy now,” he said, snapping her attention away from his magic.
She shook her head and went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked at her hands again. Just one crescent moon remained. There was no lock on either of the two doors in here: one led to the hall and one led back to him, but she couldn’t quite remember which led where. Reality flipped, back and forth, from one hand to the other, until the last little moon had faded. Hands empty, she chose the truth, and opened the door.
Ashley Woodward
“Ok.”
The ritual complete, the conversation over, she turned away and went back upstairs. Alone in the bedroom, she examined the marks on her palms: the tiny red crescent moons danced across the backdrop of criss-crossing lines. They would disappear soon, and her head, heart, and life lines would remain, etched perfectly and permanently. Making an impression was very hard.
He followed her into the bedroom. It was late – it could not be otherwise. Their little talks were reserved for afters: after work, after dinner, after clean-up.
He moved things around. Not around the house (not anymore, she didn’t think) but around her. He moved the sense of things, the core of what was and what wasn’t. He moved what couldn’t be. It was magic, she realised, as she watched him get ready for bed. He held the truth in one hand and the opposite in the other. He passed them back and forth, switching them swiftly, slickly, before throwing them down before her; every day he dealt her an invisible two-card Monte. Her bets were always on the Queen of Hearts, on truth. But he inverted truth, passed it back and forth, and flipped over the grinning Joker.
“Are you happy now,” he said, snapping her attention away from his magic.
She shook her head and went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked at her hands again. Just one crescent moon remained. There was no lock on either of the two doors in here: one led to the hall and one led back to him, but she couldn’t quite remember which led where. Reality flipped, back and forth, from one hand to the other, until the last little moon had faded. Hands empty, she chose the truth, and opened the door.
Ashley Woodward
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