A Short Story
‘A Simple Truth’
Fiction- Written by -M. Taggart
Warning- Adult Material.
She use to wash my feet, he thought. The water from the shower would land on her breasts and he’d watch the beads of water collect and trickle down her stomach, to her naval, and then the tub. She’d take her time and scrub one foot at a time. He didn’t know why she did this. He had taken it for granted, he thought.
Now he sat on the couch, looking at his feet, and wondered why she’d ever cared enough to touch them. He opened a can of beer. It made a suction sound. Bits of beer flew up and out of the can. Some sprinkled onto the coffee table.
‘Want to go for a walk?’ He asked her.
‘No. It’s too cold out.’ she replied.
It was 50 degrees. The sun was shining. It was November.
‘We could bundle up. You have that L.L. Bean wool jacket.’
‘I don’t like it. It itches my skin. Besides, I brought it back.’
He took a long pull from the beer. It foamed in his throat. Soon he would need to spit. The sun looked graceful. He wanted to be in it. Walking. Anywhere. He knew if he left for a walk she would become angry. If he sat and made conversation, she would pick it apart. If he sat and said nothing and drank more beer she might ignore him and that was the best plan.
The shower almost always ended with her giving him a hang job. He would be close to sleeping. She would message his calf. Then his quads. Eventually she’d start to tug. How to get back to the shower and the washing of the feet?
‘Do you want to take a shower?’
‘I’ll take one later.’
‘I mean the way we use to. But this time I’ll wash your feet. And you can lay back and sleep if you want to. Let the hot water land on you, I won’t need it.’
‘All you think about is fucking.’
Often, yes. He thought. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He wanted to repay her and find a way to go back. Fix all the middle ground he and she had trampled on. He was confused about it, but knew somewhere in there was truth.
‘I don’t want to fight.’
‘Have another beer.’ she said.
The best plan was to have another beer and not talk. Not talking was nice because he could still talk in his head. Fuck, he could write an entire novel in his head and forget it all by evening. He might even sit down and write a chapter. Or, he’d tap into some whiskey and relax into a nice long conversation he’ll never have with the one he loved most because he wasn’t sure how to start without chaos following.
‘Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?’ he asked her. He had finished his beer.
‘Can’t I sit here in peace? Why do you constantly pick at me. What’s with all of your questions?’
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Now it was too late.
‘Maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered bitch who can’t realize how hard I’m trying and how difficult it is to communicate with you, maybe then, you’d fucking get me. But until then it’s more beer and a big Fuck You.’
She got up and grabbed her jacket. He heard the keys in her hand. The sounds of self-served abandonment. He knew it well. ‘Keep being you. You drunk.’ The door slammed shut.
He needed to spit badly now. The beer foam had gathered in his lower throat and was becoming a ball of fucked up saliva. He felt the tension from the fight gathering in the pit of his stomach and rush toward his chest and he spit the wad from his mouth and watched in spin in the air. Parts of mucus broke off and went in its own direction. The bulk of the wad landed near the TV, on the carpet. It clung to the carpet looking disgusting. He’d never done that. He wished he hadn’t. He hated himself because he knew the same emotion which enabled him to cause this mess was the exact same that caused him to destroy his relationship.
Fuck myself, he thought. Then he got up, went to the fridge, opened a new beer and grabbed a towel.
copyright -M. Taggart 2016
Want to read more of my writing? Try my self published short story, ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ found via the link below.