flashquake Fiction flashquake |
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I smile. I try not to, because there’s nothing funny about it, but I can’t help myself. “I don’t know,” I say, “Does God still do that?” “Of course,” She says, “Why wouldn’t he?” She’s staring at me, but I keep my eyes on the road. “I guess it seems kind of immature. You’d think a deity would be above revenge.” Angela leans against the passenger side window and closes her eyes. “I’m being serious Josh.” “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just trying—” “I know,” she says. I reach out and put my hand on her leg, but she moves away. When we get home Angela curls up on the couch and turns on the TV. I go to the kitchen to fix dinner, but all I can find is tomato soup. When it’s done I bring her a bowl and set it on the coffee table. There’s a show on about a wasp that paralyzes a spider and lays her eggs inside its body. Angela’s not watching, she’s somewhere else. “Are you doing okay?” I ask. Angela looks at me. “Sad,” she says. I move to the couch and sit next to her. “We can try again,” I say. “That’s the fun part, right?” “What if it doesn’t work? What if this keeps happening?” Angela sits up. “I don’t think I can do this every time.” “It won’t be every time,” I say. Angela leans forward and stirs the soup. She raises the spoon halfway, smells it, and sets it back in the bowl. “Maybe it’s not meant to be,” she says. “Don’t start with that, Angela.” “You haven’t thought the same thing?” “No,” I say. “I’ve never thought that.” I pick up the bowl, walk back to the kitchen, and dump the soup in the sink. When I come back she’s lying on the couch with her eyes closed. I sit next to her and brush the hair from her face. She moves her head to my lap and after a while she’s asleep. On TV the eggs hatch and the tiny wasps eat the spider alive. I close my eyes and think about God. |
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We’re driving home from the hospital and Angela asks me if I think God is punishing her.