Taking Out The Trash
He arrived home to pitch black.
The sun went to sleep hours before, behind the mountain and its accompanying blanket of mist. Moist moss grew rampant around the currently unused front door where, for years, he and his wife greeted guests with glee. In fact, just months ago, they howled with Halloween visitors. The house looked haunted now.
Fumbling and stumbling through the kitchen door, he tripped on one of the carpets while navigating his way toward the light switch, lurching forward as he flipped it on.
The breakfast dishes were still in the sink.
No sign of life but for the cat in his bed by the fireplace. Presently, he stretched and yawned, lithely lumbering a leg closer to the warmth of the fire.
He unpacked his computer, phone, and related necessities, and got to work.
He took the trash out first.
After he came back from ferrying empty liquor bottles and garbage to the curb, he poured a glass of wine and helped himself to some pre-dinner snacks. Settling himself at the kitchen counter, he perched on the small seat of a barstool that had once belonged to one of their now adult daughters; his long legs and bony knees crashing against the cabinets.
Presently, it came to him that he had not yet seen his wife.
“My love?” he called.
He heard a weak sound, so he turned on more light and walked to the bathroom.
He saw his love.
His love’s body was doused in crimson water in the bathtub they never used, though had intended to when she renovated the house a few years before the children left for college.
His love’s head was cocked at an angle he’d never seen before. One of her hands drooped and dripped over the tub’s white curve, these red insides spilling onto the floor. The languid pose made him think of their cat. His love’s eyelids fluttered and her blue lips parted at his voice.
He couldn’t hear what she said. This irritated him.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Again?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you need from me.”
He turned off the light and walked back to the kitchen to start dinner.