infidelic

It's dark when he goes to work,darker still as he idles in his truckoutside of his own house, surehe's scrubbed the smell of her sweatout from under his nail beds.The house sits dejected like his wifeon the edge of the bathtub,the bottle of laxatives empty on thecounter, every inch of herintestines scraped clean.She can hear the truck in the garage.The business trip was longer than usual,longer time out from under his prying eyes.His nose was once so perfectand now it turns up at her, shoves her.He's still in his truck, cravingalcohol he's never even had.He craves the son he never had.She was always so thin,those birthing hips no use to him.The truck engine cuts at last andthe shaking house is silent.The words on the post card meantfor her husband are loud as ever,a pretty script unlike his wife's.She stands, stares at her brokenframe in the mirror and sees thatdespite all efforts, the fat on herstomach will not dissolve.For two months that fat has grown.The hallway is tighter than usualas his form bombards towards the bathroom.He pounds until his wife appears,hands him the crumpled card fromthe woman he hides in Colorado.She tosses more words over her shoulder.I'm pregnant.

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