The woman who was married with Death
Like the tiny wings of a moth beating inside and against the glass walls of a cup. There was no other way to describe it.
She married him almost six years ago. He came to her small village near the mountain, helped in the construction of the new bridge, lend a hand at the salmon fishing and seemed to care for her, silently, but truthfully. They didn’t talk much, not even to get to know each other in a more profound way, as you would expect of a married couple. Not even when they made love. He came into her life, and she accepted him, as he was given unto her by fate, mysterious, silent, but respectful.
He worked. Somehow, he worked, he had a job. There was enough money coming by the post office proving that he had a regular income, and he seemed to have care and devotion and pride in whatever he did. Every single morning, sometimes even before the sun appeared from behind the mountains and warmed up as little as it could these high places, he would get up from bed, walk across the backyard, where peonies and daisies and an array of edible vegetables grew all year, and sat at his rough-cut wooden desk inside the shed he called, for appearances at least, for legitimacy, office. He rested his hands on the top of the table; fingers stretched apart and after a symmetrical fashion. Then closed his eyes, gently. Sometimes he opened them up, but for the briefest of moments, as if falling asleep. She would see him occasionally during the day when she brought in a tray with foodstuff or tea or warm honeydew, but would not interrupt him with questions. She just set down the tray, mutter a here you are, I hope you enjoy it, or something innocuous like that, and leave, closing the door behind.
When he opened his eyes, he always looked beyond the window in front of him, towards the ocean down below, which could be seen from up here, a mere trimming of it coming into view from between the tall pines. But somehow, she knew that he was looking farther still. Much, much farther. There was no human distance in that glance. And she could swear that she would hear an odd sound every time he was working there. A fluttering of some kind. She used to say it sounded like tiny wings of a moth beating inside and against the glass walls of a cup, like she used to do when she was a child.
She married him almost six years ago. He came to her small village near the mountain, helped in the construction of the new bridge, lend a hand at the salmon fishing and seemed to care for her, silently, but truthfully. They didn’t talk much, not even to get to know each other in a more profound way, as you would expect of a married couple. Not even when they made love. He came into her life, and she accepted him, as he was given unto her by fate, mysterious, silent, but respectful.
He worked. Somehow, he worked, he had a job. There was enough money coming by the post office proving that he had a regular income, and he seemed to have care and devotion and pride in whatever he did. Every single morning, sometimes even before the sun appeared from behind the mountains and warmed up as little as it could these high places, he would get up from bed, walk across the backyard, where peonies and daisies and an array of edible vegetables grew all year, and sat at his rough-cut wooden desk inside the shed he called, for appearances at least, for legitimacy, office. He rested his hands on the top of the table; fingers stretched apart and after a symmetrical fashion. Then closed his eyes, gently. Sometimes he opened them up, but for the briefest of moments, as if falling asleep. She would see him occasionally during the day when she brought in a tray with foodstuff or tea or warm honeydew, but would not interrupt him with questions. She just set down the tray, mutter a here you are, I hope you enjoy it, or something innocuous like that, and leave, closing the door behind.
When he opened his eyes, he always looked beyond the window in front of him, towards the ocean down below, which could be seen from up here, a mere trimming of it coming into view from between the tall pines. But somehow, she knew that he was looking farther still. Much, much farther. There was no human distance in that glance. And she could swear that she would hear an odd sound every time he was working there. A fluttering of some kind. She used to say it sounded like tiny wings of a moth beating inside and against the glass walls of a cup, like she used to do when she was a child.
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