Mud by Charles Huschle

I spent the entire weekend at the nude beach without my husband because it was the logical thing to do, and above all else, I value practicality and logic. I’m sure he would have preferred I be at home making the Sunday pancakes after his usual fruitless attempt to wind me up in the bedsheets, make me have an orgasm, or get himself off, or neither, or both. That seemed to be his weekend morning plan, and no matter what progress he made each week with me, he seemed drawn back to the same old, same old plan the next week. It was driving me insane. I told him so. I told him that the beehive he had for a brain was overpopulated and that he couldn’t seem to go for one minute without desperately thinking that I was going to leave him when I’m sure I gave him no evidence to that effect at all. He did all these things to get me to stay: that was his logic. He sent me flowers at work after an argument; he sent me long text messages apologizing for something he thought he’d done to hurt me but which I’d forgotten hours ago — or at least didn’t invest with the same meaning he did; he endlessly cleaned the kitchen and the house, and I could see his color change with the combination of resentment and hope that it would make a difference. I could see him grow old and bent before my dark eyes. It became so easy to topple him into guilt, despair, and hatred that I nearly enjoyed myself saying this thing or that thing when I knew it would feel like a punch in the gut or a stab in the back. I had fun making him believe he was wrong. Can you blame me? Our relationship tasted like a radish. All I wanted to do was get him to snap at me. So, inch by precious inch, I would snip, snip, snip away at the cord he wanted to bind us with. He began to grow a beard without discussing it with me. This was when I realized it was all about to drip away and then evaporate. He wasn’t around when I woke up Saturday morning, and I didn’t think he’d be back. So I went to the nude beach, smeared salty mud on my breasts, and lay out in the buff. And when a pot-bellied man with a small ass sat next to me and made small talk, I let him stay.

© 2012 Charles Huschle, first appeared at Fictionaut

Charles writes, meditates, gets on the water as much as possible, and loves his children.

Comments are closed.