Charred…

Apparently, love means never having to say “please” or “thank you” anymore, either. The abrupt silence started six days ago. No root cause given or deciphered. Just painful indifference for those closest. She and the car were gone when he woke up later than usual today. No note. Just true silence, the remnant of lukewarm coffee in the pot, and an acrid, hot smell. The heat was on under the rest of yesterday’s soup he made, but much too high. It was boiling, starting to burn and smoke. He turned off the heat and slid the pot away from the glowing eye on the glass top stove. He didn’t hear her departure but the charred condition of the soup told him it was at least 15 minutes ago. Probably longer. The old dog appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, untrimmed claws clicking the torn, cracked linoleum. He stared at the man but offered no useful clues to her departure. Maybe this is the day. The long overdue exodus. Maybe the silence is all that will remain. The dog held his stare and licked once at the air. Poor beast. Mostly blind. Totally deaf. Just as indifferent to the situation at hand. The end is nigh for him, too. The man knew it. It seems like the dog did, too. He clicked his way closer to the man and reached up his snout for a nuzzle. The man looked out the kitchen window to the empty street. She hated this dog. Every lick. Every wet mouth noise. Every bark, as rare as they were, all brought forth a rage of irrational hatred and frustrated words. Anger unleashed.

The man would wait until the burnt soup and the pot cooled down and he’d put it on the floor next to the water bowl. The old boy wouldn’t mind the burnt condition. A firetruck’s siren wailed in the distance. The ill-fitting screen door caught the wind, and returned to the frame with a tell-tale metallic crash. Maybe the silence would continue for both of them.

[Tidewater, Norfolk]