The List

It was crumpled in his pocket now, bending and melding to his every move, and he no longer thought about it every time he sat down or stood up. The first day it had been stiff, crackling slightly to reveal his maneuvers like a bell on a cat collar. He had thrust his hand in his pocket, touching it, fingering the corner until he felt it soften, worn like threadbare fabric.

He stood leaning over the bathroom sink. His belly rested on the edge of the cool surface, protruding slightly like a soft loaf of bread. His pants were open, the zipper scraping against the tile. Carefully he drew a stripe across his cheek, a pink smooth surface emerging beneath the white foam. He sported a goatee now, even though she hated it. She said it made his big square face look even bigger and more square. Though secretly he agreed with her, he maintained it carefully, trimming first one side, then the other, shaving the edges away with mathematical precision.

He rinsed his razor and laid it carefully in the drawer, aligning it next to his comb and toothbrush. He toweled his face and padded into the bedroom, pausing to hesitantly press the light switch. She did not stir. She lay sprawled across the bed on her stomach, her blond hair spread about like last summer's weeds he had whacked next to the house. The blankets were wrapped around her, leaving his side of the bed bare. He sighed and opened the closet door.

He selected a shirt, put it on, and left the bedroom. The kitchen smelled like coffee. He reached into the cupboard and searched for his mug. The sun pierced through the window, bright yellow patterns on the frosty glass, paisleys and swirls and eddies. He squinted and turned to pull the shade. It dropped with a clatter. He picked up the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

He turned the TV on, volume down low so as not to disturb her. He flicked through the channels until Willard Scott's rotund face beamed out at him.

A step behind him, a hand on his back. He turned. She stood in the half-light, rubbing her eye. Her face was flushed.

He reached for her. "How come you're up?"

"Not feeling well. Can't sleep."

"What's the matter?"

"I think you know."

He looked down into his coffee.

"You need to make this go away," she added.

"I can't. It's done."

"It isn't over until she's out of this house."

He looked up. "She's not here!"

"She is here."

He stood up, turned with his coffee cup and went back to the kitchen. "Look, you won. I'm still here. I didn't run off with her or anything."

She sat down. "What did I win?"

He dumped his coffee out.

She waited. When he did not reply, she said, "Well?"

He said, "Look, I know what I did was wrong. I've admitted it. I'm sorry I hurt you. Can we just let this go?"

"No! We can't! We have to fix this! You keep defending her, defending yourself, and you don't talk to me! You don't tell me what you want! Your solution is to just find another woman. Just run away from your problems here!"

He sighed.

"And you don't show me you love me, or that you care about what you put me through."

He shrugged. "I'm still here."

"You said you're still here out of guilt!"

"Well, I wouldn't feel guilty if I didn't love you. I'd leave."

"Leave with her, you mean."

He shrugged again. "I won't lie to you."

"Oh, great! Thanks a lot!" She turned and ran back into the bedroom. The house shook with the resounding slam.

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He turned away from the sink, then back again. Finally, he paused, leaning with one hand on the counter behind him, staring at the floor.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. He unfolded it, spreading it meticulously on the countertop, and picked up a pen that lay near the telephone. On the paper was a column of words, tiny and precise, in dark and angular letters. Hateful. Jealous. Sloppy. Selfish. Argumentative...

At the bottom, he wrote, "Ungrateful."

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