The Job

A man walked home with a new canvas duffle bag. He set it on the concrete steps and unlocked the screen door, then the wooden door. His suit bore dark stains that he covered with his umbre-toned leather driving gloves as he walked past the kitchen and into his room.

“You’re home early.” A voice called out from the kitchen.

“Didn’t have any more to do at the office.” The man replied, stuffing his suit into the washing machine.

“I was making lunch. Want a sandwich?”

“Sure.”

The man showered while his wife made lunch. Steam filled the bathroom, frosting the windows and coating the mirrors in a fine film of condensation. The duffel bag sat on the bed, unzipped halfway. The man stepped out of the shower, grabbed a slightly damp towel, and dried himself off. He threw on a thin starched shirt and sweatpants and moved the bag off the bed, landing on its side with a loud thump. The man walked past the short hallway into the kitchen where his wife sat slouched, biting her nails. A tuna sandwich and a glass of cabernet sauvignon were placed on a paper plate at the opposite end of the table. The woman pursed her lips as the man sat hesitantly down to eat. He brought the glass to his lips and took a large swig.

“Where'd you get this wine? It’s nice.”

“You promised me you wouldn't take the job.” The woman’s voice shook.

“I didn’t”

“Yes, yes, you did.”

“I told them I got a real job.”

“You never did. You lied,” the woman said, putting her hands on the table as she stood up. “I called the office this morning. They said they never heard of you.”

The man’s face went white as he sat staring at the woman.

“I want you out of this house by tomorrow. I am scheduling a divorce lawyer as soon as I can.”

The man objected silently, his mouth agape, starting to form the thousands of words flowing through his mind.

“Don’t even talk. You’ve done enough to this family.”

He did not talk. Instead, he took another large drink. A metal salad tong flew through the air, crashing into the paper-thin styrofoam cup and bounced off the man’s slender nose. The man moved his hand away from his face, clenching it and releasing a steady drip of blood that deepened the faded wine on the cream tablecloth. He said nothing. In silence, opposite one another at the long dinner table, the man kicked back his chair.

She had really done it this time, he thought.

The woman remained still, only letting her chest rise and fall off tempo with the heavy, labored breaths. And then she grew silent again.