Pepitas

My wife cut off all her hair and I think it was because of something I said last night.

My mind was racing as I thought of everything I could have whispered or shouted at her. I thought I had used the right words, but I probably put them in the wrong order. I can be very guilty of that.

I watched her move like the wind in the kitchen. She was putting pepitas and walnuts on our salads. But she wasn’t saying anything. Normally she asks how work was or if I had fed the cat—repetitive habitual domestic questions that we use on each other to fill the space and air. But she remained tight-lipped. She didn’t even say anything when I went for the whiskey—we’re supposed to be doing that dry January bullshit. So I knew something was up.

In the silence, I heard the rain hit the windows and wondered if the basement was leaking again. We have a drip that comes through the electric meter box and the power company refuses to come out and check on it. When I called up from the basement to tell her that it was still dripping, she didn’t respond. I sat for a minute on the basement ground, watching the water. I let it fall into my whiskey glass. Finally, I made the move to go back upstairs where she had just finished setting the table.

I gave it a beat or two to see if she would talk. I watched as she devoured her salad. Her long black hair—of which I hadn’t touched in some time—now in some salon dustbin, instead of through my fingers. She looked untroubled. Like she had regained the form of a princess or a fantasy warrior out of some book she had read as a child. In a life long before we have to worry about wet houses and what to eat for dinner.

I turned on the jazz station on our portable radio and we sat together as the rain continued to fall. I wanted to dance but I didn’t trust my feet or my hands enough.

 

Later that night, I sat in bed trying to read. The words were not appealing. I was watching her body in front of her dresser. The buzzcut was throwing me off. She had to have gone right after I left for work. Or maybe she did it herself in the backyard and threw away all the evidence. She had made a plan and crushed it and I envied her for it slightly.

I went to ask her but I wound up coughing instead. She turned around, gave it a hard smile, but didn’t say anything.

I watched her get ready for bed. She worked lotion into her hands and elbows and put on one of my sweaters. I knew then she wasn’t going to let me touch her. I got saddened over the idea and I put down my book and went to lean over into her side of the bed.

“I just want to know—”

She cut me off. “Not tonight,” she said and shut off the lamp on her side of the bed. She crawled in and started going through her phone. I rolled over and tried to look through the blinds to see if the rain was dying down. It was hard to tell so I got out of the bed and went downstairs. She didn’t call after. I knew then I had to try to find an answer to something, whether it was going to be helpful or not.

I took the whiskey out to the backyard with me and I began pushing all the outdoor furniture away from the brick wall. I knocked over the charcoal grill and woke up the neighbors. I scanned the length of the wall, looking for cracks anywhere. I used my phone flashlight and drank while I did a perimeter check. The rain soaked my socks but I still moved well, being thorough and intricate with my home, feeling the surface in the same way that I used to touch her, gentle and with love. I didn’t find where the water would be coming in from. I started to look through the trash bags for her hair. Everything was clumping and soggy in my hands and I tried my best, but there was nothing, except salad leftovers and pieces of our domestic existence. I looked up at my bedroom window and the light was still off.

I sighed, sat down in one of my patio chairs, took a long pull of the whiskey, coughed and called the power company.

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