Flash Fiction: Thirty Years Married
Those who eat fish from the cyanide lake improve their sex life © Tomas Bachot
He says I got a problem with pills. I say, no, I got a problem with you. Pills help.
He says I never listen; that my voice is too loud. I say, no, I’ll listen when you find something to say. My voice is loud because I had a mother who taught me to use it. She took every pill in the bottle before the cancer spread up her longs to her throat, because living and speaking her mind were synonymous. “You can take my body but never my voice,” she said as I held her hand with the clear tube running from her purple veins.
You thought she was selfish. I thought you were naive.
I remember singing that song you can’t stand as we left our family in the church where we vowed to argue for life. You didn’t say anything, even though I could tell you wanted to, like it was bursting from your father’s suit that was a little too big on your shoulders.
I thank love for stopping by as I prepare your favorite dinner. You kiss my forehead and set the table. You’re my oldest friend, after all.
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