Nuclear

 Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

"They all have nukes pointed at each other,” Marcus says. “Their fingers are literally on the buttons.”

I doubt he means literally.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“You should...at least...know.” Mortal terror amplifies Marcus’ habitual verbal emphases.

“Why?” I brewed an aromatic Sumatra blend this morning, and I’m thoroughly enjoying my first cup.

He stomps into his office, where cable news spins an infinite loop of fear and loathing. Passing Marcus' door, I glimpse a newsreader weeping into his hands. It seems he meant literally. I resist the urge to linger. Who needs perpetual narration of the sky falling on a tilt-o-whirl world over which the carnies have lost control? 

In the living room, I open the blinds wide and cuddle under a woven blanket thinking coffee has never smelled or tasted so fine. Not even at that claustrophobic café in Tapachula where we breakfasted every morning for two years until pandemic terror ruined every aspect of everything everywhere. I miss Chiapas for a while, then go for another cup. Marcus comes in and pouts while I pour, but he offers me what’s left of the cream. I skip it. Best to let the perfect things be.

I’m headed to the couch when he says, “We could see the flash any minute, you know.” 

“For a nanosecond,” I say, not looking back. “Then we’ll be dead.”

He slams his door.

Is he mad at me or the bombs or the fingers on the buttons?

Cross-legged on the sofa, I cradle my mug in both hands and stare out the window, secretly hoping for the long-dreaded flash, wanting to share it with Marcus. I want us to be that alone together—like we were in Tapachula before we made friends and acquired enough Spanish to stumble through a daily routine. I want to whisper, Te amo. To touch lips as we melt down to our molecules.

The television goes off, and Marcus comes out. He sits close to me, long arms crossed between his knees.

“The coffee is spectacular,” he says.

“I know,” I say, and he smiles.

“Taking a break?” I put my cup on the table.

“Mental health day,” he says, his voice in splinters.

I rest my shoulder against his arm. He kisses my fingers and folds them under his. We wait in silence, holding hands and looking out the window, dangling in time.

Bachelorette

Photo by Mpho Mojapelo on Unsplash

“I love you so much it hurts.” Dad sounded like a child desperate to get adopted. He yanked on my long hair; I fell into his denim work shirt. It reeked of redwood sawdust, sour mash and bargain women. My breath ran out through his shirtsleeve, and he squeezed harder, demanding love without reciprocity save his mouthing of it. 

Mom, having failed to love him thusly, lay unmoving on the kitchen floor. 

I escaped when the ambulance arrived. 

In the living room, Oprah told an applauding television audience, ”Love is a verb."  I thought she said "word". Year after year I went on thinking she’d said "word".