By Kirsten Kaschock
“Forget the pitch.” The words woke with him. Had it been a ship dream? A dream of torches and townspeople? A baseball dream? He’d had them all. Dreaming was the place he did stuff. His bad hips were worse.
What is a what is a pitch? A tone you can’t reach no more, Singer.
He made his shuffling way to the kitchen and she was nearly off. His eggs were on the table. She’d dusted them with paprika.
Another fucking day.
I’m going to work.
What is to what is to work? The job you don’t have no more, Stumbler.
The quick pressure of a kiss goodbye, the heavy clomp of pumps she felt she had to wear. She wasn’t short, the office wasn’t fancy. He liked the ballerina flats girls wore past the bar afternoons. When they came in nights, stilettos and platforms and platform stilettos lifted them another five inches. Taller than him on the stool. But by then he was slouching.
The eggs were cold. She’d left out a glass of ice water. Maybe twenty ounces. Super-gulp size. Just huge. The mini-television in the kitchen was useless. Three staticky channels, no cable. He hadn’t checked the classifieds in six months. She kept asking him to marry her.
What is a what is a ring? The hole you can’t dig for her, Brother.
He scanned through the first section of the Times and the front page of each subsequent section. He was nothing if not anonymous. He checked the box scores. Did the crossword. She wanted to cancel their subscription. She said, Paper is over. What she meant was expensive and useless. But you can’t do crosswords online. You can’t do anything online but pretend to be whole. Despite pain, he’d kept the pretense up two good years. They were three months into their fourth.
Maybe she thought to wear him down. Maybe his hip sockets grinding bone-on-bone were supposed to do that work. Her doggedness was irritating. She wasn’t very pretty.
What is a what is an asshole? The you you’ve become, Asshole.
Sometimes it was a miracle she wanted him. And it was a last vestige of something wicked, prideful, honest — that he didn’t feel the same. Without that shred, that cruelty, he would fall down. He would not get up. Until now, he’d been winning the battle against her insurance, her kindness, his health. He was a victorious kept fucking cripple.
You back?
Forgot my gym bag. She scanned the room, his plate, the half-glass of water, sweating.
It’s in the bedroom. You nearly broke my neck.
How’s the hangover? She smiled. Do you wanna come?
Babe, you know I always do.
What is the what is the answer? Drop into the river. Be still.
She kicked off her shoes, scooped him up and carried him down the hallway. She threw him onto the bed. A fabulous woman. He didn’t deserve her. The ceiling began to spin and he closed his eyes and the world was sealed behind. Its waves passed over him as one already dead.
Kirsten Kaschock is the author of two books of poetry: Unfathoms (Slope Editions) and A Beautiful Name for a Girl (Ahsahta Press). Her debut novel, Sleight, a work of speculative fiction, was published by Coffee House Press. A chapbook, WindowBoxing, is out from Bloof Books. She has earned a PhD in English from the University of Georgia and a PhD in dance from Temple University. Her most recent manuscript, The Dottery, winner of the Donald Hall Prize for poetry from AWP, will be published by University of Pittsburgh Press. She is the Viebranz Visiting Professor of Creative Writing at St. Lawrence University for 2013-14.
