Battery Not Included
She says I’m forgetful. Says I don’t listen. She says that she wishes—wishes she had listened… to her mother.
She says a lot of things, and I hear them. Her voice, in my head—on an endless loop.
At night, she talks. In bed, she talks. Lights off, she talks—accusations, evidence, exhibits A, B, and C. Closing arguments in a trial I never win.
I nod in the dark, let the words stack up until they tilt and topple over.
Every morning, Route 9 curves left just before the bridge.
Every morning, I lift my foot and look at the guardrail.
The metal is dented where someone else had the same idea. Skid marks on the asphalt, like a question mark.
Today I don’t slow down. The curve takes me where it always takes me.
To work.
“You look tired,” Janet says when I get there.
“Netflix,” I say. Wink. Smile.
I’m such a wildman.
Lunch break. I sit in my car and don’t eat the sandwich I packed.
The radio plays something with guitars. I turn it off, listen to the engine tick. Count my blessings.
It’s enough to disappear, if disappearing is what a man decides to do.
I consider the guardrail again.
My phone buzzes beside me: “Pick up dinner. Something good for once.”
“Sure!” I type. “What sounds good?” Send.
A gray bubble floats up. Three dots dance. Disappear. Dance again. Disappear.
Back at my desk.
Type: ”Any requests?” Send.
Dots dance.
”Figure it out. That’s what you’re supposed to be good at.”
Home. She’s on the couch, phone in one hand, wine in the other. Doesn’t look up when I walk in.
“What’d you get?”
“Tenderloin. That pasta you like.”
“We had pasta Tuesday.”
We had tacos Tuesday. I know because I made them. But saying so would start something. I don’t have the energy for something.
“What would you prefer?”
She sighs. “Whatever. I don’t care anymore.”
Flame erupts from the burner. Oil runs thin and quick in the pan. Water climbs the pot and spits at the rim. Steam sputters and flees - ghosts making their escape while they can.
I turn the meat once, then again. Browned fat and garlic fill the room.
The paring knife catches the overhead light. I slide it back into the block. Select the chef’s knife instead; its weight balanced in my hand. Test the edge with my thumb.
I set it down and step back.
We eat. She scrolls. The phone lights her face. Blue comes and goes. Her laughs are short, private. She doesn’t look up.
Soon, she’s back on the couch, remote in one hand, wine in the other. Pressing buttons that do nothing.
“Remote’s dead,” she says without looking up. She holds it out to be seen.
“I’ll get batteries tomorrow,” I say.
“You said that yesterday.”
I threw them away yesterday, along with my gym membership, my library card, credit cards, my driver’s license.
“Sorry,” I say.
She drinks, she scrolls, she sighs, “Useless,” she says.
Later, her head rests against the cushion. The phone slides to her chest. The screen dims, goes dark. The wine glass tilts in her hand.
I take it. Rinse it. Set it in the dishwasher.
I pause to study her, settled, sure. So confident of her place in the world.
In the bedroom, I pull the duffel from the closet. Two shirts. Undershorts. Passport. Bills folded tight and rubber-banded.
I leave the wallet on the dresser. I set the phone on the nightstand. I spin my ring off and lay it on the sink lip where the porcelain is chipped.
In the kitchen, I tear a page from the list pad and write. The letters slant. I fold the paper once and leave it by the salt.
She jerks and mumbles in the other room. Her feet push against the armrest. She tucks small, fetal, then stretches long again.
At her side, I put my hand out, but stop before I touch her shoulder. Switch off the lamp instead.
The room holds its breath, then settles.
I close the door without sound.
Snow pellets sting my face. The walk is three miles to an empty lot, save the battered Jeep. The door squawks open. The vinyl creaks, springs moan, then settle. The door clacks shut.
The seatbelt slides over my shoulder and finds its click. The engine comes up and stays. The dash clock has dust around the numbers. I brush a half-moon clean.
Soon, she’ll wake, call my name, and get no answer. Check the den, the garage, find my car keys in the bowl by the door.
Route 9 is black and cold now. At the curve, just before the bridge, I don’t take my foot off the gas.
The engine roars as I accelerate.
It’s enough to disappear.
When disappearing is what a man decides to do.
🤫 psst→ /the end is closer than you think
Intersection
[a 50-word story]
Red light lasts ninety seconds.
I’ve timed it.
Long enough to see them check their locks, study their phones.
Today a girl rolls down her window, smiles, hands me a sandwich wrapped in foil, still warm.
Her passenger frames us with her phone.
Records the good deed.
Ham and Swiss.
Spare a dime?
It’s just you, me, and these people I can’t get out of my head.
If you’re tapped, you’re tapped. I get it. But, if you’ve got a buck that won’t leave a hole—throw it in. The buttons are below.
$1 per month
…or, if you’re feeling generous
Thanks! ❤️