gypsum and pine by Johannes Shephard
A kettle clicked off in the kitchen. They both stood to get it. No shrill whistle on this electric variety. Gone were the days of gas stoves and the song of tea. The doorbell chimed. They made eye contact in front of their living room door; he motioned her forward. She proceeded right and down the hall to the door, and he went left to the kitchen. Soft clinks emanated from the pantry as he rummaged for three mugs: his, hers, and the guest’s. He mused on which of her friends it would be this time. Not that it might not be one of his or that he didn’t have any close friends, but his friends had the good sense to call before coming by. Perhaps it would be someone from her work, maybe an old classmate, an ex-boyfriend here to profess his love. Whoever it was, they would carry on with their stories, tragedies, and triumphs. A highlight reel of memories that would provide ammunition for their next fight. Maybe this friend has a husband who makes more than he does. Perhaps they have kids that they conceived after a try or two. Even if their life was going terribly, it would be a highlight reel: one of failures. The cheating spouse, the nagging in-laws, the awful boss. Not that they didn’t also have miseries interrupting the monotony of life. They just knew how to make sense of it as circumstantial for them. The desire that had made the spouse cheat was in them too, but it was because of the stagnancy of a long marriage. The frustration with how others lived their lives that begets nagging they knew all too well, but it was because they genuinely knew best when they nagged. The idiocy of one’s subordinates that could only be solved with anger was uniquely a fact of their lives; if only they didn’t have to supervise such stupid employees, they wouldn’t be forced to be so strict. Breaking from his reverie, he made himself coffee and her tea, knowing that he was in for a long night of one kind or another. If the news this intruder brought was good, then it would be a tearful one; if it was terrible, he would be in for a raucous night of critiquing. They would sit together hand in hand and tear apart the friend’s marriage, job, or the fall on hard times that were their fault. First chatter, then laughter, then sighs and moans of passion would fill their home. The aphrodisiacal force of suffering might bring them closer tonight, he hoped. From the doorway, a draft carried in muted conversation. “So good to see you! Of course, come in, have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Water?” The voice of this woman that he had spent years living with was clearest to him. He knew the way that her tone filtered through drywall and pine studs, the way it snaked
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