'The Wife' by Fu'ad Lawal

I awoke to the sound of the baby monitor crackling with a voice comforting my firstborn child. As I adjusted to a new position, my arm brushed against my wife, sleeping next to me.

Let that sink in. Feel your heart try to break free from the cage that is your chest.

It’s one of those moments when it’s hard to tell if you are awake, or asleep. I closed my eyes even though the room was dark and placed my palms over my ears. Darkness upon darkness.  I don’t know for how long I remained like that but a gentle tap on my shoulder pulled me back.

“Honey,” my wife said, baby in her arms, “what’s the problem?”

I opened my eyes. There she was, the only other person in the room, besides the baby, with no one in bed with me.

“Nightmare,” I sighed.

“I’m coming to give you a wild, sweet dream.”

My testosterone hit overdrive.

When she came back to bed, she came as a stallion, and we rode to places beyond time till the morning. I missed that trip she gave me, and I gave her.  Even though we’ve been married two years, I thought this her was gone forever.

This morning feels different, more beautiful. Euphoria. I’m cleaning the house like there’s a price waiting for me. I know there is.

I’m taking out the trash from the house when I stumble on a bag of trash that seemed to hold wet stuff. I open it and there she is, in a trash bag, in more than one piece, my wife.

I don’t know which terrifies me more; that I found my wife in a trash bag, or that whatever monster I spent the night with said behind, “you weren’t supposed to find it.”

Fuad Lawal is a poet and copy writer. He blogs at rebelliousflash300.wordpress.com

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