The Antiquarian
Flash ficiton.
I find my wife in antique shops. In little ceramic plates and bug-themed Squishmallows. From my pocket, her phone pings. Emails. Students. University book store coupons. I take it out, watch the alien device until its screen fades to black and then for an indiscernible amount of time longer. I think she’s still in there, somewhere.
Mostly I just sit. Sit and stare at this home we made. This entire material realm is what we envisioned, forged, brought to life with annoyance and grit and Facebook Marketplace road-trips and battles of wit with seniors in Goodwill. We did so many things we knew would need to be forgone only nine short months from the moment we said, Why not?, and proceeded to fuck without a condom. She didn’t want to start trying until we were at least — at least, she emphasized — twenty-seven.
She was thirty-two.
Six months later, and I am being battered by therapist, mother, and several work friends to try. This is a different type of trying. Go to a movie. Go to a bar. Go see some art. They do not mean for it to feel like they are dragging me behind their electric cars, and all the while, I am hearing their voices, the sound of their strange, soft engines, and thinking, This is the sound of the end of the world.
I do, after another six months, and then another six months after that, go to a bar. There is a woman with dark hair and immediately my heart plummets. I can feel my skull filling, flushing, filling with blood. She looks at me and there is an air as thick and searing as a cattle brand. I panic. No, I act very rationally. I sneeze, open-mouthed. I know that COVID has ruined us all. I never go to that bar again. I go home, alone, to sit in the realm her and I created. It is the best and worst place in the world.
Her phone brightens. The room spins. I still sleep in our bed. I know it’s uncouth, but why should I give up any more of what’s been taken? The light reflects on her hamper, the cool cloth-lined metal basket, peeking out the open closet door. What do you do with your dead wife’s dirty laundry?
Six months later, I will have the blank thought, The antique shop?