Word Count: 501
If you asked him he wouldn’t tell you but he’s afraid of being alone. He’d say he hasn’t “gotten any” in two years since she died. A little laugh, near a snicker. Surely anyone can understand and empathize with that.
He’s cursed her a million times and wonders why she put the pots in that particular cabinet. Down low, where he has to get down on hands and knees. Why the spatula is in that drawer alongside gleaming knives that nick knuckles. It took him weeks to find the ladle and he’s left it handy in the drying rack ever since. One plate, one bowl, one fork and knife, and a teaspoon he uses both for canned soup he has for lunch and his morning coffee. The mug is rinsed out right away and stands ready each night by the pot.
He’s pretty sure she changed the bed sheets every Saturday but once a month or so doesn’t make any difference. See’s no reason to make up the bed every day since it’s rumpled only on his side of the bed. Laundry offers its own set of problems. White tee-shirts and Jockeys have a pinkish tone to them now. He runs the vacuum over the carpet, mops the kitchen floor when they look dirty. There’s no need for a stricter routine. You never know what’s going to happen, what you can count on. He didn’t think he’d ever have to figure out how to dust.
He started dating through online services. Paid hundreds of dollars upfront. Remembered to wear a clean shirt and pants. Get a haircut. Open doors. Pay for the meal, not to eat with his hands, cover his mouth when he sneezed. Wondered in these modern times when he could expect to get laid.
There were the tradeoffs which he finally had to learn to accept. The bodies that came on the twenty year-olds most often didn’t come with a mind. He couldn’t afford going out every night, and the gamut from salads to burgers and fries took their toll on his stomach. What he thought was often was never enough; what he thought too much seemed to bore them.
And the housecleaning became more of a problem as he worked to always make it look nice.
He ran into an old friend back from high school. Rounded now, touched with gray. But she knew the words to the same songs he crooned. Made meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies and chicken soup from scratch. He married her as quick as she would say yes.
They spent a good year of dishes put away in the cupboards. Beds made up every day. Bleached white laundry and tables dust-free. And of course, occasional sex.
She took ill and died while his fear and his grief fought inside him. But the fear won out and he went through the whole thing again. The bed is unmade, the dust layered thick, and the mug stands alone by the pot.
