“Babe, help me up – the ladder isn’t down for some reason, and I’m exhausted,” he said treading water, smiling (and twitching a bit) at the thought of his notebook waiting for his recordings of the sea life diversity he’d seen while diving.
She looked at him, reached for the rope before getting lost in thought about the rope that bound her as recently as last Tuesday, and thought of his smile that day and how it mocked and spoke of the 1,001 cruelties he just might do to her and had done to her, before.
She thought about visits to her sister’s, how her mom turned her back on her bruised cheeks, and about how she wasn’t allowed to have friends over because he needed a perfectly quiet house, a perfectly quiet wife, and dinner at exactly 7:05 each evening, with the starch and veggies chopped just so, even though she didn’t eat starch because what would happen were she even fatter?
She reached for his hand, as a good wife would, remembered the body buried in the yard, said “Forget this,” stood, and started the boat’s engine, sure that he’d find a way to climb over any second and punish her for not helping him aboard quickly enough.
His anger glowed red on his balding head; but she breathed deeply, sat, told her shaking legs to quiet, and hit the throttle, leaving him to the sea life he’d been living for for the past 17 years, and drove away.
“Well, f*ck me, the stupid bitch finally grew a backbone,” he thought, and, as the wake from their boat grew further, he felt admiration and pride for his wife as his arms grew weaker, weaker, weaker…
This is a Six Sentence Story post for the fabulous Ivy of the Uncharted blog. This week’s word is “well.” (and yes, I used it, see the last sentence of the drowning guy)
Once, she saved me a billion dollars in cab fare after a writing retreat in Mass. Truth. She also likes it when you call her Weeniebutt. Or, maybe, she only likes it when I call her that. You’ll have to ask.