When David Builds a House Around Himself
Francine Witte
It’s a brick house, third-pig style. It’s solid and made of all kinds of David Logic which not even I can huff down. One brick is he’s not sure he loves me anymore, another is it’s time to move on. I know I should walk away, but I can’t. I’m worse than a starving wolf.
But a good wolf knows when to be cool. So, I stand there now, in front of the steel door I’m not even sure he can hear through. First, I try tears. I don’t have to work very hard. I howl about the way we sat by the dunes last August, how the saltspray melted into our hair and how he swore he would love me forever. Then I call out about our almost-baby, the one we loved for a week when I was late but it turned out a false alarm.
When that doesn’t help, when the door remains solid and silent, I try promises. I tell David how I will learn to hike and be more like his ex, Miranda, the one whose name still slips out when he’s sleeping. She was the one who left without a word and taught him to put up walls in the first place.
My promises fall flat on the ground, bounce right off the bricks. I can’t be Miranda, I tell myself after an hour of huff and puff. That’s one promise I know I can keep. I finally decide to wait until David goes out for food. At some point, he will have to get fed. And when he comes out, famished and tongue hanging out, I will stand there, blocking his way because I can wait forever to see whose hunger will finally win.
Francine Witte’s flash fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous journals. Most recently, her stories have been in Best Small Fictions and Flash Fiction America. Her latest flash fiction book is Radio Water (Roadside Press.) Her upcoming collection of poetry, Some Distant Pin of Light is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She lives in NYC. Visit her website francinewitte.com.