FELICIA C. SULLIVAN is a New York based writer attending Columbia University's MFA program. Her work has been published in Post Road Magazine, Carve Magazine, EM Literary, The Oklahoma Review, and The Adirondack Review, among many other publications. She is the Founder & Editor-in-Charge of an online literary journal, Small Spiral Notebook. A self-professed yoga junkie and culinary goddess, she loves French pastries and wearing down the jackets of her favorite novels. Felicia is a co-curator of a new non-fiction series at the KGB Bar in NYC.
their small secrets
Rebecca likes her wine red and she likes it poured in a short stemmed glass with a full wide mouth. James prefers his scotch neat in a cloudy glass, still hot from the dishwasher. They sit across from one another on the down slope of their marriage at the kitchen table, drinking. The table is painted a lemon color called sprite. Both have agreed that the hue would match their white cotton kitchen curtains that are embroidered with golden butterflies. Their hands pass one another as Rebecca reaches for the bottle of Cabernet and James settles his empty glass on the table. Picking at the label of the bottle, she scrapes the edges. James pours himself a third glass. Frowning at the goblet, James walks to the kitchen counter and pulls a glass from the cabinet and places it in the dishwasher and presses “power” and “hot”. The swashing of the water and the rumble of the washer echoes in the room.
“You really need to waste gallons of water, don’t you?” Rebecca says.
“The glass was dirty,” James replies, unbuttoning his grey trousers. A lump of fat pours over his leather belt buckle. James shivers at the chill of the silver against his skin.
“You’re pathetic.”
“I can’t remember the last time you were attractive to me.” James laughs and reaches for the Cabernet. Rebecca immediately snatches the bottle before he can grab it and starts drinking the liquid in quick, large gulps.
“Get your own,” Rebecca snaps, pulling loose strands in place. She holds a great bunch of her curly red hair and adjusts her bun. A tortoise colored bobby pin hangs from the corner of her mouth like a burning Marlboro Red.
The washing machine shakes for a few moments and then putters and dies and James smiles as he rises again, opens the machine and a gust of hot steam wafts in the air. He picks the glass up and plants it on the table and pours another glass of scotch, neat.
“Don’t get any on the table!” Rebecca hisses, her words softly beginning to slur. Her lids caked with brown shadow are heavy and her mouth parts slightly as if she is about to say something. She says nothing at all. There is a stir from the refrigerator: of ice being made, of wax paper thinning, of milk curdling in the bowels of the double sided fridge. Water drips from the second shelf to the third and a soft thump can be heard as it lands on the lid of a blue Tupperware bowl. Rebecca stares down at her empty glass, bits of cork float with remnants of liquid at the bottom and she swirls and swirls the glass around until she is bored and then she places it back down on the table, the lemon table.
Then there is the quiet. The room settles. There is no drip, no rumble, and no squeak. They shift uncomfortably in their expensive chairs.
“Did you bring my pants to the tailor?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I called the Kellers…”
“I’ve already confirmed and called for a sitter,” Rebecca says.
“Fine. This is all fine.”
Squeals of laughter come from the living room. Sam and Beverly, their children are watching soft porn on Playboy. The parents do not worry – there is no penetration. Sam is twelve and is responsible for plot commentary and Beverly is fourteen, and she comments on the integrity of the shoot. She analyzes whether the camera angles can be improved and Sam ponders on the structure of the narrative. This has become their obsession – porn. James and Rebecca are fine with it as long as their homework is done on clean sheets of loose-leaf and the family realizes that this is their own little secret.
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© 2003 Felicia C. Sullivan
