The Mouth

by Katie Gleason

There we were, my husband and I, in the crowded hamburger restaurant,
our friends sitting to the left and right of me –
they were visiting from out of town, delighted to see us again -
me sipping my chocolate milkshake, trying not to make eye contact,
my husband shoving greasy fries in his mouth while chuckling at someone’s joke,
and we pretended like that all night.
Behind the screen of our laughter, what our friends didn’t know was everything -
that our marriage had reached a precipice, my husband was heading one way, and I another,
and we had finally confronted the edge together and peered over -
it had happened on our couch the previous evening, while we watched
a reality show about a middle aged couple selling their house.
The couple on the show were both abandoning their professions –
they had decided to travel the world, or follow their dreams, or both -
and I imagined myself packing up, too, going on a trek of my own.
My husband scoffed the couple’s decision, and he launched into a monologue
scolding them for their irresponsibility - he kept talking on and on
about how silly their quest was, building his case –
and that’s when my vision blurred - I saw the shadows on the walls expand and darken;
the delicate, blue-grey paint we had chosen a few years before slipped off
and was eaten by the floor – and the high ceilings we loved so much
when we had first toured the home, they started to collapse –
they dropped lower and lower until they hung
not an inch above my head, plaster cracking and sprinkling on my hair –
and my husband kept watching the show, as if nothing was falling,
prattling on, lost in himself as he often was.
I tried to listen to him dutifully, his arm slung around my shoulder like a cast,
and then I turned away from his droning voice - away from the shadows,
the blackened walls, away from the floor’s mouth gaping like a hungry hound.
I turned away and closed my eyes and swallowed each crumb of his words until I was full
and then I cried, “No!”
Startled, my husband drew his arm into his chest, his voiced finally lulled,
and because my stomach was bursting with words, I cleared some out –
I don’t know if I’m in love with you anymore.
It was my turn, and my voice kept surging forth –
my husband looking on, nodding, not saying much, eating my words,
and part of me wondered what he was thinking
and when he would be full.
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