Rumbling

He had no idea why his wife accused him of being a ghoul. The word had shocked him into that silent place he always journeyed to whenever his wife stomped across the floor in her fluffy slippers offering yet another serving of verbal assault.

It hadn’t always been this way. He remembered how he’d been riveted by her rapturous dialogue when she’d discussed the many things that interested her. So wonderful were her words that her interests had become his interests too so that in time he had completely forsaken himself. He had gone home after their first night of conversation and torn apart his vintage “Scarface” poster along with any intentions of ever playing Pac Man again.

He hadn’t told her about what he’d done certain she’d dismiss his sacrifices as futile.

In those days he felt completely inadequate to her and her intelligence, and wondered why she’d chosen him as the one she wanted to spend her life with. There were times in the beginning when he’d walk beside her trying desperately to keep up with her physical and mental prowess. She’d discuss everything from physics to the importance of the pinto bean in ancient long dead cultures as they journeyed down winding syllables and phrases. He worshipped her every step and secretly envied the ground beneath her for having the joy of her repetitious pounding. He longed to dissect her every thought invading secreted places.

And now after all their years together he had done just that.

Now there were no more secrets. He had discovered them all long ago. Now the voice that once intoxicated him with its beauty and eloquence reminded him of sandpaper. Sometimes when she wasn’t aware he’d mimic the awful nasal whine that had replaced the dulcet tones which had meant more to him than music.

She made other sounds now too.

His wife’s once perfectly formed body that had once rivaled cold marble statues standing blind and beautiful in museums had become a heaving mass of folds and flatulence.

They’d stopped sleeping together years ago. He’d lost interest in her almost as soon as she’d let down her walls and let him conquer her remaining reticence.

Now the landscape of their lives had been marked out from coast to coast and room to room. She had allowed him the small bedroom in the back of the house and little else. He was content to have his own space free from the plague of her erratic behavior and constant complaints about his sneakers. He’d worn the same pair since before they’d met and unlike his wife, these had grown into a comfortable fit that suited him more and more each time he’d put them on.

During the rare occasions when he felt inclined to spend time with her because of memories of better times and sentimental longings for something tangible besides remorse, he found little joy. Her previous gift for conversation had been replaced by a steady stream of nagging, gossip and discussions about the latest enchilada or some such recipe that she would inflict on him.

Their life together had been a bumpy ride. At first little dramas and passionate debates excited him, but those had dissipated into a steady stream of thunderous rumblings where nothing was settled except falling dust.

Her words bounced off him like pebbles skipping across the surface of a pond as he read about another unnamed drunk model or runaway found in some forgotten place. The baseness of their deaths sounded exciting and continental to him. He liked to sit for hours poring over the news stories of murdered women while listening to his wife’s heavy stepped tramp over tired floorboards and frayed rugs.

He’d seen one of the murdered girls on the shuttle one morning on the way to work. He knew it was her from the newspaper clipping he’d carefully placed in his scrapbook. She’d smiled at him as she was smiling now. Her smile couldn’t disappear into disappointment and regret.

Passion had been replaced by a baser aspect of itself. He had no idea how it happened, because there had times in the past when he’d spent the whole day panting to get back to her just to see her smile. But those times had died a few short years after “I do.” But he had found something else to replace it now. There were so many scrapbooks; almost more than his room could contain. He barely had a place to sleep and sometimes made a bed of them feeling more at home among and upon the clippings of dead women and girls than anyplace else.

The only thing that could wake him from his reverie was the sizzle of morning bacon along with the realization that there would be more clippings to be found, discovered and added to his collection. Then he’d enter the kitchen as he did every morning where his wife stood over the stove. His actions were the same as they were everyday. He’d yawn kiss his wife hello while waiting for the moment when he would ride the shuttle once again and the possibility of clippings and young girl smiles filtered through his thoughts like grease.

His anticipation rose with every bite as his wife glared at him from across the table while in the distance the low growl of thunder purred.