Months turn to years while housewives scrub floors and remove little balls of lint from the collars of their husband’s suits.
On the rind of Earline’s husband’s suit, lipstick appeared. Eddie, of course, was ignorant of its origins, never being near the sort of woman who wore lipstick like that. He rubbed the stubble of his chin, looked up at the sky, and said, “Except for … uh … the jostling in the elevators every morning—we’re like sardines in a can, Earline.” It was the skyward glance and the way he added, “Yeah, maybe that’s it…” that made Earline think of subtracting Eddie’s head from his body. She pictured that little ball of lint rolling into eternity, like a gutter ball spurned from scoring anything but the sting in its eyes when it sees the machete coming—the one Eddie bought her at the thrift shop to round off her pirate wench costume last Halloween.
Course, that’s just Earline’s dream. Housecleaning thoughts, as she rifles through her husband’s drawers.
Brenda Warren 2012
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