A Short Story: Her

The following is a submission on which I was working for an annual contest sponsored by Selected Shorts of Public Radio International.  A few things started happening around here and I missed the deadline.  (Partly because I misinterpreted the rules and realized my error too late to do a proper rewrite.)  The entry must be no more than two double-spaced pages of 12-point Roman font (I think that was the font); the subject matter must center around an object of desire.  I have no training in short stories and have written none save the few I tried for this contest in the past two years.  Takes me out of my box.  I love to read and listen to short stories.  Writing them is an art.  Brevity is difficult for me.  Thus, I should probably practice within the short story genre for my own good.

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The frets, worn to smooth silver nubs, accept my fingers with a familiarity shared between intimates of long-standing.  There is no resistance to my caress, each string eager to welcome me back after my decade of absence.  Her rounded contours hug my body, the same perfect fit we’d once shared on a daily basis.  When she begins to sing, as clear in tone and pitch as the day when first I coaxed the music from her belly, I can’t stop my voice from joining hers, counterpoint of tears.  Oh, how I had missed her touch!

“What are you doing here?  Put her down.  Right now!” the words hiss from somewhere behind me, near the open door of the garage, “You shouldn’t be here!”  Feeling the onrush of habitual guilt, I push her from me, wiping my eyes on my jacket sleeve.  I turn to face my ex-wife and sigh, “You didn’t answer the door.  I found the key in the same spot, and it worked.  I didn’t think you’d begrudge me my own belongings.”  Instinctively, I place myself between her and my ex.

A trembling pink-nailed finger thrusts itself into my immediate line of sight, “YOUR belongings?!  That’s rich, sweetheart.  Rich!  I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.” Sneers do not improve my ex’s features, but I feel it is best to bury this insight.  “You left her.  And me.  Ten years ago.  TEN years!  We DON’T forgive you!”  Behind me, her neck has warmed to my backward embrace and she doesn’t agree with this other voice in our shared space.  I am emboldened and step forward to challenge the finger and its surly owner.

“No.  No, you’re wrong.  I never left her.  If ever I got out, I promised to return for her, to take her away from this heartless place,” standing back, I widen my arms to take in the entire of the garage, “Look where you put her.  YOU don’t love her.  Let her go.  GIVE her to me.”  My boldness is gone, replaced by a desperate whine I try to suppress.  I’ve stood in front of burly tattooed men intent upon doing me harm in small windowless places where prying eyes couldn’t witness and open ears could not hear, but that pales next to the fear congealing in my veins as I catch the expression in my ex’s eyes.  It’s hate.  A hatred not directed at me . . . but at her.

My ex blames her for the thing which took me from them both.  One night of strumming for the party crowd.  One celebratory bourbon too many.  One four-way stop misread.  One 17 year-old kid who would never graduate high school.  I blame the rightful party: me.  But when the marriage turned cold with the banging of the gavel, I knew she was in danger.

And now that danger is screaming at us.  My ex waves a sheaf of papers in the air,  spouting on about state divorce laws, community property and police intervention.  My ex will exact her pound of flesh.  As much as I love her, I can’t go back to prison.  We can’t run away.  And she definitely can’t remain here.  Our options have expired.  All but one.

She’s in front of me now.  I want to remember our shared touch, the sense of rightness between us.  One final time, I stroke her slender neck and run my hand down the length of her, a comforting trill escaping her depths.  She trusts the decision which has passed between us.  I extend her, focusing on my ex’s face, “You WANT her?”    

“Whooomp!” with the power of countless hours spent pumping iron, I slam her beautiful body into the concrete floor.  Again and again and again.  My ex falls silent, her victory deflated.  Only my labored breathing and the grating of metal on mahogany can be heard: her final song rings mournfully among the pieces at my feet.  "Good bye," I whisper.