There is No One to Help Them
“I think it's really gross,” she said.
“I think you're really gross,” he said, “and also, I'm sorry. But also, it is staying here.” She frowned, and then stepped back, and then squinted.
“It's gruesome. It's too much.” The lone standing figure in the etching had his hand to his face. It was probably in grief, but she pretended it was in exasperation, so she could relate. “ACK!” would have been a good caption. She wished that it was so. But it was not so, because what she imagined could not be real, because that is not a thing that happens to real people, because because.
“It's punk rock, sweetie.” He put his arm around her and squeezed a little bit. Then he gave her a big goofy grin, and she mustered up a half-smile in return. And so it was settled.
And then it was night. They were lying in bed, and he was asleep, and she was not. She didn't want it to be settled. This wasn't a nagging thing. At least not on her part. She wasn't a nag. The picture was nagging her. It was nagging on her mind. He had been doing stuff like this lately. He had purchased the brand of bread that she has a particular distaste for. She found herself sorting the silverware portion of the dishwasher, because someone had suddenly decided that putting each kind of utensil in its proper allotment was too much work. These were not “Nagging House Wife” matters. These were “Decent Human Being” matters. She decided these sorts of issues are better to confront than to ignore. She soon found herself standing in front of the print holding a red sharpie. The caption had been altered. And she smiled.
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