Amy
lay spread out on the double bed like a pile of discarded body parts. Foothill blankets blended into her landscape.
She had had a hellish day at the gas station: didn’t sit once for over three hours, and
managed only two cigarettes between customers. New Esso policy was to blame for that,
not her boss, who was a pretty alright guy. A small trickle of saliva momentarily
interrupted her rest. The great tectonic plates shifted, then were silent again. If Amy were
awake, she would not be remembering the day her husband, provoked equally by bravado
and desperation, had glibly walked into her little Esso booth, dropped two and a half packs
of cigarettes down onto the counter, smiled and said, “It’s over.” She would not be
remembering responding, “Don’t do this to me at work,” to the back of his head, which had
already turned, and was moving towards his laughing friend’s car. She had sublimated
hearing his exhilarated, maniacal laugh. No, if she were awake, she would be quietly
worrying that her husband didn’t think she was smart enough, that she wasn’t witty enough
to make him laugh or interesting enough to make him interested. She would be happy that
he was with her, though, and happy that he had managed to get his job back on the line
before the snowblower and lawnmower assembly company had been able to fill the
vacancy he had left. She would, if she were awake, take solace in this reinstated security,
in his professions of love, and in her love for him. But she was asleep, dreaming.