Low rumble, make it stop.
Terry asked Terri why do you spell your name with an I.
Because to spell it with a Y would make me as miserable as you, her reply.
The velocity and venom of the truth stung, but Terry had a retort.
Piss off.
And Terri did.
An I for an eye indeed. He gets to keep the emptiness. She took the silverware.
The rumble is erased; and he misses her in the new, disquieting quiet.
Ripping the phone off the wall did not help lessen the grief. Neither did shredding her letters, her handwriting a Russian ballerina on slippery, pointed toes. He found the watch she bought him for Christmas and smashed it with a hammer, the tool he used to help build their bookshelf, which was now empty except for the Old Farmer’s Almanac.
Terri hated the Almanac. Tomorrow is never promised. She'd say that repeatedly, irritatingly so, a meaningless prediction scratched in the pages of too many regurgitated and burdensome yesterdays, none ever made better by looking forward. Terry with his head in his hands and Terri with hers sturdily stamped to her sturdier hips fought to a stalemate, each the line in the sand.
Terry now routinely wakes from his agitating sleep to the sound of a ringing phone, cocking his head, and the mirage withdraws, his pillow, concrete. He listens backward much more often than he used to—someday, he hopes to understand why, perhaps to pick up something he dropped or missed.
Terri habitually thinks of Terry while washing her solitary fork in the absurdly large kitchen sink. She considers calling him.
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day later. After running errands. After endless staring. After attempting to clearly unhear.
A high-pitched squeal.
Wishing she could make it stop.