We Come to Our Senses Read Free Page A

was for dinner. My response was to ask what she wanted, because she vomits so much I can no longer guess what’ll stay down.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said.
    â€œTaco Loco?” I said. “China Buffet?”
    â€œNo. But thanks for the healthy suggestions.” She took a big breath and looked out the window. “Sorry,” she said.“Maybe I can go Taco Loco again. I just need to coat my stomach. God, it’s burning up in here. Can we not turn on the air?”
    â€œSure, babe,” I said. “Just tell me what you want.”
    â€œI don’t know. Nothing,” she said. “Just nothing.”
    â€œâ€™Cause I’ll eat whatever, Dar. I just don’t have any money.”
    And so forth. Finally, she just took her pills with a glass of buttermilk. We then sat and watched Animal Planet beneath the hot draft of the ceiling fan. I thought about asking Darla why her boss had called the house again, looking for her during work hours. Thought about asking until reflux crept up my throat. But I stayed quiet. Since moving to Mississippi, I’ve come to mistrust confrontation; I am no longer sure where her wrong ends and my right begins.
    During a scuba segment, Darla described the feeling of hatchling sea turtles crawling over your bare feet. “Flippers like flower petals,” she said, her tone cottony and nostalgic. “Back in college, North Carolina, you’d go to the beach at night and shine a flashlight to guide them to the water. The light pollution, it—”
    â€œYou decide where you want to eat?” I cut in, not wanting any part of North Carolina, of Fort Bragg and that soldier she was with before me.
    She didn’t answer. At every commercial I’d ask again, and she’d say she didn’t care. At some point I stood up from the couch, and went to grab a handful of quarters from the change-jar on my dresser. Darla could figure her own thing out; I was going to cash in for a set of two-for-one Walgreens pizzas.
    I charged back through the den on my way out the door. “Since you can’t tell me what you want to—”
    She lunged up and ran to the bathroom to puke. This always makes me wonder if the pills even stick. I mean, what’s the point?
    An hour or so later, back on the couch, Darla said we didn’t have that much romance left in us. In response I said, I love you, Dar, over and over, which was all I could think to say. I love you. But I love you. Gosh, I love you. How I love you. It felt like scooping water with a rake.
    She was angry anyway. We were again watching television and she gave me positive news about her cell counts, and I only responded with, “That’s great,” at the commercial. But I love you. The cat had pulled out all kinds of tiny loops in the faded red upholstery. Darla had been skipping work but not coming home. How I love you. Nobody could stand to put the dishes in the dishwasher until everything piled up and stank and had gnats.
    â€œEnough,” I said a few minutes later. “Go get your suit on.”
    She turned the television volume up.
    â€œCome on, get your swim trunks,” I said. I held my gun finger to her head until I earned a smile. We no longer watched films. We no longer spoke of culture. Yet romance could still be rekindled by sneaking into the pool at High Cotton Apartments.
    At the Quik Pik, I grabbed a twelve-pack, and Darla handed me the debit card, no problem. Things were looking up and we had plenty of gas in the car and she said she doesn’t really mind my new little belly. We snuck into the complex pool andfound nobody there, so I stripped my t-shirt off. She pushed me in and shrieked. There was a pool light at the shallow end but the light at the deep had gone out. Most of the water was opaque in contrast. The purple-green evening darkened into moonless black and the stars began to pop in stuttered levels of bright. At the edge of the patio