Dry as Rain Read Free

doubted them. She was in a psychiatric hospital. How okay could a person be to find themselves there?
    She focused on my knees. “Thank goodness. Are you going to see her?”
    â€œWhat else can I do? She’s still my wife.”
    â€œNo. I know. I’m just asking.”
    I said nothing for a moment, then set about picking up the rest of my clothes from the rug. Scratching at my freshly grown neck stubble, I asked, “Would you mind if I borrow a razor and some toothpaste?”
    Without so much as looking at me, she shrugged. I ducked into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. A pack of disposable pink razors sat next to a battered box of Band-Aids, a bottle of watermelon body spray, and some peroxide, which, according to its expiration date, should have been thrown away two years ago. I grabbed a razor and the apple-scented shave gel resting on the edge of the tub. I’d smell like an orchard, but at least I would look presentable.
    After squeezing a dab of toothpaste onto my finger and doing the best job I could for my teeth, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Veins of red fractured the whites of my eyes. When I frowned at my weary reflection, fine lines etched themselves around the corners of my mouth. Strands of silver had infiltrated my thick black hair so much that it was now almost a fifty-fifty blend.
    Where was the dashing young man of my youth? The one my wife couldn’t keep her hands off of? I sighed, turned the light off, and stepped back into the bedroom.
    Danielle was looking at me once again with wide, admiring eyes. She now wore a white T-shirt and men’s boxer shorts—trophies of a previous relationship? The thought both nauseated and relieved me. I didn’t like thinking of myself in a long line of lovers, but then again, if I was, maybe she was less likely to have mistaken our night together for more than it was.
    The way she looked at me, though, told me our tryst had meant something to her. Great, I thought, patting my pockets for my cell phone. Just what I needed, to add another boulder of guilt to my quarry.
    I glanced around until I spotted my car keys resting atop her digital alarm clock. “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
    Though she smiled stoically, her eyes betrayed her.
    â€œI wish you could stay,” she whispered.
    I kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling sorry indeed.

Three

    I felt like an actor in a bad B movie as I made my way to the front desk of Batten Falls Psychiatric Hospital and signed in. I just wished somebody would yell, “Cut!” so I could take Kyra home. The receptionist eyed my wrinkled suit with disapproval and pointed to the waiting area.
    The pleather couch looked like a relic from the fifties, but it was comfortable enough. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and tapped my foot. A line of gilded-framed portraits stared at me from the wall to my left. Male and female, young and old, each board member shared the same baleful expression as if they knew what I had done.
    Farther down the dimly lit corridor, sad plants drooped over macramé-hung pots. The dreariness of the place had permeated my soul the moment I’d walked through the door. Maybe it was the eerie silence, so stark I could hear my own breathing, or the vague nursing home smell lingering in the air. My gaze moved across the tiled floor, polished to a mirror shine. At least it was clean. That was something.
    Running my tongue over inadequately brushed teeth, I pulled a stick of gum from my suit jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and shoved it in my mouth. As I chewed, cinnamon burned my tongue, but the taste soon died. Nothing lasted long these days. Not Kyra’s love for me, not Benji’s childhood, not my faithfulness as a husband, not anything . . . but then again, neither would this nightmare.
    Kyra would be home soon. Then what? As if I didn’t already have enough to feel