Under the Windows
by Robert J Boland

It’s cold out in the garden.

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We used to spend hours here, days, before, hands in the soil, haloed in the sun’s golden glow, tending to the plants that grew like our life, vibrant, intertwined.

At night, we’d retreat to the warmth of the house, fold into one another, our love as thick as honey. After, we’d talk and dream. The future was ours. Possibilities stretched before us like the corridors of infinity.

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Careers first, of course. Get set up. Invest, make good choices. Pay down the mortgage. Then children. Two. A pigeon pair, boy first. Tall like him, bright like me. The little one daddy’s angel.

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The careers came but the children didn’t.

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Time and work and expectations pressed in, the heat of love cooling to friendship, then companionable silence, then, slowly, to something else.

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He sunk deep into the couch, took root, gut turning soft and doughy. His skin grew pallid, bathed in the flickering blue light of the television. I returned to the garden, became lean and sun-bronzed, nurtured it like a loving mother.

The plants grew rich and verdant but our love withered.

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It’s cold out in the garden, under the windows.

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Suddenly things improved, out of nowhere. A second wind. He was working more but the spark rekindled in his eyes. He started going to the gym, bought new clothes. Work kept him later and later. Phone calls came at odd hours. A new password on the laptop.

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A promotion brought travel and conferences, never with me. When he returned, we made love, of a different sort. Exciting at first, then rough. Dangerous. The flowers he came home with after every trip couldn’t quite hide her delicate perfume.

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He was too guilty to confess and I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I was afraid of the truth. He spent more and more time at the office. I went back into the yard.

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It’s cold out in the garden, under the windows, beneath the soil.

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He was careless, elsewhere. We fought, over little things, at first. The big things couldn’t be said. The dishwasher left open, red clothes in with the white. It got worse. He got worse. It was easy to hide the bruises. At first.

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Then I found a heart-shaped pendant hidden in the bottom of his drawer. It wasn’t meant for me. I ran downstairs. He was making dinner. I threw it into his face. He looked down at the knife in his hand. It was razor-sharp, like his smile.

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He went into the garden again then, in the dark, for the first time in years. He took me outside. She took my place.

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She’s inside now, in the house. I can hear her laughing.

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I used to laugh. When I was warm. Now everything is silent and still, except for the worms.

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It’s so cold out in the garden and it was so warm in the house.

I want to be warm again.

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I think I will go inside.