Editor's Pick — Debi Orton

flashquake
Out of Scale
by Gary Cadwallader

"I chose this piece for two reasons. The first is the eloquent love letter that this man writes to his wife. The second is the scene between them when she discovers it. For all his depth of feeling for his wife, he does not appear to know her. I find that inexpressibly sad. Sometimes love does not conquer all."

This is what I write:

She is lithe, a bronze figure covered in silk. She loves to dance but will not go when asked. She is furious, easily moved, overly considerate, ostentatious, grand, tasteful, delicate, hard, and base.

She is my model when I paint, my castle I must guard. She is the slippery rock that fools my foot, jars my teeth, cuts my lip. Hers is the tiny ear of God.

She sews, and lives, without patterns.

She is my worst critic and, as I write this, she only knows I love her, but not why, or how much, or with what force.

She is out of scale, and to my great delight she calls me husband.

I frame it in gold and slip it under her pillow, waiting, wondering, hoping.

"What the hell is this?" she asks. And then she reads. She takes forever. She finds her glasses and reads some more. Finally, she puts her glasses away, turns off the light and pulls the covers over her head.

I am dumbfounded. I sit up in the darkness shrugging to no one. I make frustrated gestures and smack my forehead. "Baby, did I say something wrong?"

"No."

I lie down. I pull the covers back and give her a kiss. The frame is pulled to her bosom, and tears wet my lips.

© 2002 by Gary Cadwallader

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