Wet With Money
I don’t interrupt my husband, but in the beginning I did. What happened then has been undone. I sketch funds falling from the sky, making him wet with money, how he’d never have to work but would of choice.
The kids take over the summer lawn, they are enforcers. I watch daytime TV and feel like a heart-shaped potato. My husband says, “We’re out of rubber bands so soon?” and I don’t answer.
My hair is dry as a broom, and I complain about it with my stylist, an androgynous man with a permanent apology. His salon is a deal, but soon I’ll stop.
Twitchy about how much I like red and gold highlights, I visit Todd next door working on his bike. One night we almost shared a joint, I suggest chai tea and even that becomes a joke between us—there are no coffee shops nearby. He says it would be better if I stopped talking about chai and that he likes my old flannel shirt.
In Todd’s garage is a dusty looking mountain bike next to a newer looking woman’s mountain bike. He’s starting to cycle again. I’d like to see Todd ride.
My husband doesn’t like me in plaid, says it washes me out.