flashquake Fiction - Family by Dave Lignell

flashquake
Family
by Dave Lignell

Your husband ran a bath for you, poured you a glass of merlot and ordered you to unwind while he fed the kids. You trained him well, didn't you? You slid under the warm, white seascape of bubbles and breathed in lavender. You spread your legs and touched yourself. Knees pushed against the sides of the tub, back arched, nipples lifted on dark areolas that broke the water's surface like two islands in a soapy sea.

The razor lay on the tile. You raised your leg at the knee and spread the foam over your shin. He expected you to shave your legs before sex and he was being so good that night, wasn't he? But you never got around to your legs. No. You cut open your wrists and floated away.

I'll miss you. If you had been my wife, I would have chosen a walnut casket, not veneer posing as hardwood.

God, you look so lovely. So still. Your auburn hair combed and spread over your shoulders, your cheeks with a light blush, the kind of makeup job you'd expect from a funeral director. You're like a doll that needs a hug to open her eyes.

I would hug you, lover, but he's watching us. He'll be fine. Don't worry about him. He'll have your sister's support. She's planning to watch the kids at his house until he can work something out with his job. The kids love their Aunt Carol -- and she looks so much like you.

Of course, I'll miss you. You know that. I'd stay with you longer if I could, but I need to get to the house to help Carol pack her things. Carol isn't sure how long she may have to stay with him.