OCR Text |
Show HUSBAND AND WIFE The few zinnias on the coffee table seem artificial now, designed out of paper. There are rings of water stain on the worn wood and a cigar hangs over the edge dropping ashes to the floor. On the sofa, her husband sleeps and does not hear the room fill with the voices from the radio. She opens the drapes, light floods over him, and his eyes ache as if he'd remained underwater too long. She switches off the radio and her face, halved by the light from the window, hints at an expression that never assembles, as she drifts across the room into another still shielded from the sun. He stands in the warm square of light, wipes the small circles of his eyeglasses with a handkerchief, fingers the back pockets of his jeans to check for his wallet, and notices the noiselessness of the room. It is his house, was once his father's, and will someday belong to his son. Still, it will always be a quiet house, constructed when workers were faultless. He reaches to reposition the cigar |