Love
He loves them. Surely, he loves them. He must. For why else would he work so hard every day? Long hours, twisting and pulling wires. His necked cranked skyward, his arms reaching into ceiling holes. He comes home tired, aching. This is love, isn't it?
He sits in that chair at the end of the day and sometimes, often, he falls asleep. And sometimes, he laughs a deep belly laugh at something one of the children has done. This is the only outward, physical manifestation of emotion he ever shows. The only insight into that mind, that love...unless you count long, aching hours of work. But sometimes, he gives the same low laugh to something on the television and she has to wonder if really, truly, it is a sign of his love after all.
He wears what she buys him, always slightly more disheveled and wrinkled than she imagined when selecting it from the store rack. She stopped ironing his shirts years ago and he hasn't seemed to notice. If he cares at all about these things, then he shows it in exactly the same way he shows his love for them, which is to say there is no clear indication. But one time, she bought him new slippers. Nice ones, with lamb's wool on the inside and manly brown leather on the outside. She was under no illusion that he would appreciate the gesture, but at least his feet would be warm.
Imagine her surprise when he lost his shit over the slippers. He dug through the garbage in search of the pink slip-ons he had worn for years. Derided her for such foolishness. Breathed a sigh of relief when he found them in the bottom on the bin. Brushed them off and slid them on his feet.
As she watched, a calm relief fell over her body, too. Not because he had found the slippers, but because he had been so upset. Because he cared about something. If he could care about something, then maybe he could care about her, care about them. She wondered if losing her would elicit the same enraged response.
He sits in that chair at the end of the day and sometimes, often, he falls asleep. And sometimes, he laughs a deep belly laugh at something one of the children has done. This is the only outward, physical manifestation of emotion he ever shows. The only insight into that mind, that love...unless you count long, aching hours of work. But sometimes, he gives the same low laugh to something on the television and she has to wonder if really, truly, it is a sign of his love after all.
He wears what she buys him, always slightly more disheveled and wrinkled than she imagined when selecting it from the store rack. She stopped ironing his shirts years ago and he hasn't seemed to notice. If he cares at all about these things, then he shows it in exactly the same way he shows his love for them, which is to say there is no clear indication. But one time, she bought him new slippers. Nice ones, with lamb's wool on the inside and manly brown leather on the outside. She was under no illusion that he would appreciate the gesture, but at least his feet would be warm.
Imagine her surprise when he lost his shit over the slippers. He dug through the garbage in search of the pink slip-ons he had worn for years. Derided her for such foolishness. Breathed a sigh of relief when he found them in the bottom on the bin. Brushed them off and slid them on his feet.
As she watched, a calm relief fell over her body, too. Not because he had found the slippers, but because he had been so upset. Because he cared about something. If he could care about something, then maybe he could care about her, care about them. She wondered if losing her would elicit the same enraged response.
Wow Alex this is such a gripping story. I would definitely buy this book as I want to find out more about this relationship. This Dad, husband, worker must have been influenced by his past or experiences. Apart from his wife and children has anyone ever loved him? I am inferring about this complex character. I am waiting for a sequel.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure I have anything to say other than this is such a powerful slice.
ReplyDeleteThere is something about this that reminds me of Raymond Carver, one of my favorite writers.
ReplyDeleteIm so glad I started following you!!!
ReplyDeleteWow - I found myself rereading this slice. Searching for more understanding. Mother - son. Wife - husband. Daughter- father. So many questions and yearning to know these characters. If it is wife-husband how has she found herself here? Was he always this way? Was there an accident? Your writing is gripping and these characters will be with me for days to come. Thank you for sharing them with us.
ReplyDeleteThere's a lot of complexity to this slice. It leaves me wondering about their relationship, the past, and so much more.
ReplyDeleteThis piece reminds me of my dad. So hard to figure out what he really feels about any of us, but deep down know that the love is there, somewhere. I both love and hate the way you masterfully build the suspense to the reveal of the character and yet we find that we will never know? Well done!
ReplyDeleteMr. Alex, can you please write a book? This a masterpiece, an inspiration for a slice I might write sometime soon.
ReplyDeleteI am thinking how love sometimes manifests itself in the strangest, unlikeliest ways. Such a real slice, real taste, of life, because living is so daily and so in the small things.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful piece. You are a novelist, my friend. My emotions were totally engaged!
ReplyDelete