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Something in the air
Jul. 11th, 2008 01:55 amShe's burnt dinner again. He can tell before he walks in the door, the smoke wafting through the hallway three floors down flooding the complex with the smell of charred fat. He knew what this meant. Everyone who lived here in the building did. She had been using the same trick for the last few months now - the meat singed until their entire apartment was flooded with an eye watering fog that was meant to cloak the stink of sex in his absence. Sometimes it was burgers left unattended in the pan, sometimes it was a ribeye abandoned in the oven set to broil, sometimes fish sticks crisped until the tin foil seeped into their breadcrumb shells - but it didn't matter how long the lie was left to cook - he could smell the truth drowning in the air around him. This had been the one gift his life had doled out - a keen sense of scent that at times was more of a burden than not. He walked into his home, their home, grunted a hello to his wife as he passed by the kitchen, half hearing whatever imaginary excuse she was giving. He made his way to the bedroom with a somnabulist's gait, noticed the sheets stripped from the mattress, the can of lysol standing conspicously on the bookshelf instead of in the bathroom, the ashtray on the nightstand meticulously emptied. He nodded at these clues to himself with a resigned satisfaction, loosened his tie, shrugged out of his shirt, peeled his shoes off with the soles of his feet and sat on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes and with a sharp sniff discerns the faint lingering ghosts that clung to the air with the tenacity of a secret: A foreign cologne, the sharp musk of sweat, the viscid aroma of her orgasms forming the slightest residue across his tongue.
At that moment he rose from his seat as if emerging from a trance. He opens a dresser drawer on the otherside of the room, removes the can of Zippo lighter fluid he kept in there along with the haphazard collection of matchbooks and some loose change he would pour from the end of his day. He walks casually into the kitchen. His wife says something to him but he can't hear the words from the distance his inspiration has buried him in. He begins dousing the kitchen with the lighter fluid, spraying it across the counter tops, the surface of the refrigerator, the black plastic mircrowave, the cupboard doors with a mechanical grace. His wife was yelling now, she shakes him by the shoulders the way you do when you want to wake someone from a deep sleep, he feels the brief sting of a slap land across his cheeks but continues spraying the kitchen until the can is emptied. Finally he turns to her. Smiles. Pulls out his Zippo, snaps it open one handed, flicks the flame and holds it there.
"What is this?" she asks. There was no fear in her voice, only the concern that had been absent from her words for the last year of their marriage. He looks at her seeing for the first time both the woman he loves and the stranger that only arrived when he was gone.
It was at that moment she knew that he knew.
He looks away from her to stare deep into the flame dancing at the tips of his fingers. He tries to find something to say - a threat, an insult, an accusation, anything - but his voice evaporates in his throat leaving the lips to mime his words uselessly. She steps forward, her chest inches from pressing into his, making no move to extinquish the fire flickering to her side, lays an open hand across his chin and swivels his stare into hers.
"Tell me what you want?" she says.
"I want you to..." he mutters the words, feeling the casing of the Zippo begin to heat up in his grip. A crisp pain begins to spread across his fingers. The flame wavers in the current of one of the stoves exhaust fans...
"What?" she draws his attention back into her.
"...I want you to kiss me the way he kisses you" and with that he lets the lighter drop between them.
At that moment he rose from his seat as if emerging from a trance. He opens a dresser drawer on the otherside of the room, removes the can of Zippo lighter fluid he kept in there along with the haphazard collection of matchbooks and some loose change he would pour from the end of his day. He walks casually into the kitchen. His wife says something to him but he can't hear the words from the distance his inspiration has buried him in. He begins dousing the kitchen with the lighter fluid, spraying it across the counter tops, the surface of the refrigerator, the black plastic mircrowave, the cupboard doors with a mechanical grace. His wife was yelling now, she shakes him by the shoulders the way you do when you want to wake someone from a deep sleep, he feels the brief sting of a slap land across his cheeks but continues spraying the kitchen until the can is emptied. Finally he turns to her. Smiles. Pulls out his Zippo, snaps it open one handed, flicks the flame and holds it there.
"What is this?" she asks. There was no fear in her voice, only the concern that had been absent from her words for the last year of their marriage. He looks at her seeing for the first time both the woman he loves and the stranger that only arrived when he was gone.
It was at that moment she knew that he knew.
He looks away from her to stare deep into the flame dancing at the tips of his fingers. He tries to find something to say - a threat, an insult, an accusation, anything - but his voice evaporates in his throat leaving the lips to mime his words uselessly. She steps forward, her chest inches from pressing into his, making no move to extinquish the fire flickering to her side, lays an open hand across his chin and swivels his stare into hers.
"Tell me what you want?" she says.
"I want you to..." he mutters the words, feeling the casing of the Zippo begin to heat up in his grip. A crisp pain begins to spread across his fingers. The flame wavers in the current of one of the stoves exhaust fans...
"What?" she draws his attention back into her.
"...I want you to kiss me the way he kisses you" and with that he lets the lighter drop between them.
