Stephen Phelps
Blue moonlight on our white bed sheets. Blue moonlight on her white nightgown and her tennis tan. Kathryn, wife of mine – no more mine than the photograph that I kept on my desk, a stool that I shifted to rest my feet on when I was tired. And if I waited for the moments between her breathing in and breathing out, she looked … not quite dead, but not quite living either. I put my hand on her bare shoulder, and, in the air conditioning, under the ceiling fan, her skin was cold.
Kathryn sleeping, me sleepless. Most nights. Not my fault.
Time to think.
Bob Peterson’s report: Johnny Bellefleur left Lillian Turner alone – most nights. Sad for such a woman to be alone. Easily remedied. What color of moonlight fell on her skin? What quiet fell between her breathing in and breathing out? What unlocked doors, what windows left open to catch the breeze?
My hand on Kathryn’s tan thigh in the blue moonlight.
If I had my way, I would break every pane of glass from every window in their house. I would rip every door from its hinges.
Why shouldn’t I have my way?
I put my hand under Kathryn’s nightgown.
‘No,’ she said. Asleep. Mostly.
I would wander their halls. I would come to their bedroom. She would be sleeping. Mostly waiting for me.
I shoved my fingers inside Kathryn’s underwear.
‘Sleeping,’ she said.
‘Present tense or past?’
‘No,’ she said.
I pulled her underwear from her legs.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’