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Eggs |
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She looked down at the yellow phlegm spilling out the bottom of the plastic grocery bag. Then Ernie came running from the kitchen where he had been disinfecting the countertops. She noticed he was wearing that blue and white argyle sweater that she sometimes noticed him wearing. He noticed the puddle coagulating on the floor, and his breath returned. "You dropped it," he said. Ernie knew she was thinking about the newspaper and the step but was prepared for this. "There's no place else to ask him to put it." "You could call and ask him. Why not the mailbox? Other people successfully put newspapers in the mailbox." Milky and thick across the fine hardwood, a corner had not yet extended to be swallowed by the fringe of the red woven Turkish rug that supported the iron legs of the tabletop. "It's on the rug," she said. "It's all on the rug." "How many does it take?" She looked at the fringe. "Well, there's two left, that should be enough," he said, and started to carry the white shards back to the garbage in a cradle of Kleenex and paper towels. But the fluid came through the paper towels and down onto the rug. She took the towels from him. She put the entire gelatinous bag into the garbage, turned and started to climb the stairs to the second floor. "I'm going to get a broom and rags and a mop. I'm going to get soap and sponges and a vacuum," she said. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and then looked down at the rug and the shells and the yellow on the carpet. He thought about Febreze and Lysol and could the couch and the lampstand. But they would come soon enough and know. They had those machines at the store. He would need to rent one of those and where were the car keys. Up the stairs and down the narrow hallway to find her but she wasn't standing by the closet where they kept the cleaning supplies. And he thought, oh God, please not today, but he saw the door cracked. Then he looked and she was behind the door in the room at the end of the hall and he opened and entered. She was on the floor in tears, crouched, her hair matted wet. The tissues and paper towels lay around her and the effluent was on her face. She looked up at him, eyes animal wild, you are to blame. And between them unspoken was the immensity of memory, a suffering and a scar that cut bone-deep and had a face but had by mutual agreement of silence been given no name. |
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Blaine Eubanks 1st place prose
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