A Man's Religion

Lights off. Gear in park. The car smelled like dust and french fries. There was something sticky in the cup holder.

He closed his eyes in the silence and cursed at the ceiling of the vehicle. God was the sound of the kids being at his mother’s house. God was the off function of his cell phone. God was an empty garage. God was the person you yell “FUCK” to when everything is sticky and smells like french fries.

The keys hit the kitchen counter and slid until they hit a half-eaten apple. He watched the apple roll, readying itself for a dive. It slapped into his hand and was safe until he sent it to rest in the trash can. The black bag peeled from the left corner as if to cringe. He didn’t fix it.

There was a candle on the table filling the room with the odor of a burning crayon. And dinner was waiting for him, staring at him in the dark. His jacket hugged a chair, any chair. He traced a finger along his own jaw. Scratched his neck, smiled.

“Laura,” he whispered at first, with all the tranquility a man could muster from a frantic Thursday evening. Another smile. “Laura.” His voice cracked through the air a little louder now. The candle flickered.

“Laura,” a pause, “I’m home!” He could hear himself, a voice that had suddenly grown older. It whipped through the room and back at him like a boomerang. Perfect quiet, then water. From the upstairs bathroom. He closed his eyes, imagining her bathing her aging skin. For a few seconds more, he watched her red curls spring up from the water. His eyes opened. Another flicker from the candle.

A splinter from the stair rail planted itself into his thumb. The third step squeaked its greeting at him like it always did, as if politely begging him to lose a few pounds. He counted the steps. God was a terribly sarcastic family portrait hanging clumsily on a lemon-colored wall.

His shoe clapped against a wet floor. The bathroom light peeked at him shyly from under the door. “Lor?” he asked the door. Two knuckles tapped against the wood. Perfect quiet, then water.

The brass knob was cold and turned easily. Light hugged him as the door pushed away. Her smell, sandalwood and cotton. It jabbed at him, playfully, like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while. God was that smell.

He followed the water from his shoes across the floor and up and over the edge of a yellowed bathtub. A hand, draped like a careful decoration over the rim. She never painted her fingernails.

“Lor,” he spoke, a tiny earthquake in his chest.

The water danced over her face and raced onto the floor. It took with it all of her smells and thoughts and secrets. He wanted to chase after it and take it all back. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t chase after the smells and thoughts and secrets. Because God was the thief.

Her red curls sprung up from the water and weaved through his fingers. Her hand was cold and small. Her eyes were closed and her face was perfect. He thought he saw her smile. He thought he heard her laugh. No. It was the water taking that from her, too.

She was weightless-- like something from his imagination. He closed his eyes. God was in her hair. God was that face, those lips. God was those breasts. God was that hand, now draped in his like a careful decoration.

His eyes opened. The candle flickered.

Perfect quiet, then a giggling squeak from the third step. He glanced at the trash can. The bag was still cringing. His keys were on the counter. Sandalwood and cotton rushed through his nostrils and made him dizzy.

She walked into the dim room like a beacon. A smile tickled her lips. He watched her remove her hair from a white towel. Those red curls fell and bounced against her shoulders. He buried his hands in them. She gave him one half-hearted kiss. God was the second kiss.

She leaned over the chair where his jacket slept and blew out the crayon candle.

“The kids are with my mother,” he whispered.

“Thank God,” she replied.