Untitled, Submission 8 by Nina C

A light breeze meandered through the back alleyways, rustling dry leaves, softly caressing the water on the street down into gutters. In a delightful fluid movement it would gain momentum, jetting up each telephone pole and shaking the lines that loosely hung connecting each cottage.
Despite the beautiful day and the cool crisp wind, Joseph sat in his house. He would remain in his house for weeks, only to briefly suspend his activities for a stroll down to the corner shop to buy more film or a few cans of beans when he would run out. Beans were easy enough to cook on the stove, and since the death of his wife, he found the only energy he could muster up was for his daily photograph and to warm this sustenance.

Daisy had passed away twelve days prior. The morning she had died, Joseph woke to the aroma of a savory cheese and potato casserole. Each morning, Joseph rose to the redolence of breakfast wafting into the bedroom....eggs florentine on crisp english muffins, roasted potatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese, waffles were always accompanied by homemade syrup and orange juice was fresh squeezed. Daisy appeared capable of taking what little money he gave her for groceries and providing a variety of not only nourishing, but gourmet meals.

After she tended to his needs over breakfast, Daisy would accompany him into the bathroom to help him bathe and shave his face. Carefully, she would drag the razor his jawline and down his chin. Slowly, pulling the handle from middle of each ear to the side of his neck, she was always careful not to cut him. She would see him off at the front door and finish her duties around the house until he came home that evening.

Theirs was a simple relationship, very few words were spoken and throes of passion were devoid. A light touch on the hand or a brush of her hair on his face in the night was the extent of their physical relationship since he lost his penis in the war. The town eerily emulated their relationship. They had moved there soon after the accident and at once both of them felt comfortable in the place that so easily mimicked the inner turmoil of their marriage. Full of secrecy and dark corners, simultaneously it appeared so sunny, light and breezy. The quiet streets each day so much resembled the utter silence that suffocated Daisy and Joseph each night they lay to sleep.

Each day, after Joseph left for work, Daisy would dress herself and walk down to the market. The grips of silence left her as she quickly jaunted on the cobblestone pathway. Joseph was always naive, never understood that it would have been absolutely impossible to obtain two potatoes on what he gave her each week for groceries, let alone the feasts she provided him, but Mr. MacEnroe was a sweet old gentleman, and Daisy knew every man had a price. She would slip in the back door of his store and undress down to her slip in his office each day to provide the services his old wife was unable to in exchange for free reign through the market. In addition, Mr. MacEnroe would prepare meals and freeze them for her so all she would have to do was pop them in the oven. MacEnroe loved to cook, although to admit so would imply a level of homosexuality no one in the small town would have been capable of appreciating. Furthermore, Mr. MacEnroe was a simple man, unable of appreciating the untouched softness of her skin, unable to hear the pleasure he afforded her by the simple act of closeness, but he did enjoy the five minutes of sex she brought him each day.

But today, and for almost two weeks, none of this had transpired. While walking home from the market earlier that month, the wind blew down the corridor, up the telephone pole, through the lines, and down came a squirrel, hitting Daisy in the face which startled her into the street where she was run over by some Italian on a motorcycle passing through the town.

Joseph would come home from work immediately that day, but never shed a tear for his deceased wife. The injuries she had sustained must have been internal, because she did not have a scratch on her. Curiously, there was little difference between dead Daisy and the walking corpse of a human being she had been in the five years of their marriage. Sure, he had no one now to dress him and resorted to eating his meals from cans, but ultimately silence continued to permeate the house and sometimes the cat would brush up against his leg, providing as much affection as Daisy ever was capable of exhibiting towards him.