Defenestrationism.net

by Stephen Page
read the suite form the beginning

The Toll

Teresa lies in bed propped up on pillows, her face white as death. I wrap the band around Teresa’s right biceps and press the button that starts the electronic blood-pressure reader. It is high again.

I prepare her toast and tea, put them on a tray with marmalade and carry the tray to our bed. She silently looks at me. I kiss her.

I grab a medical mask, take the elevator down to our car, then drive into town to buy groceries for us and medicines for her.

As I gaze at the city growing in my windshield, and peripherally at the sea and the shoreline rolling past my passenger side windows, I tell myself, I will take a break from my writing and care for her until she is well.

After I run the errands, I pick up some prepared fish and vegetables at Loose Coyote. The proprietor asks, ¿Como está Teresa? I answer, She is well.

At home, Teresa and I eat our meals while we sip whiskey and watch movies. Adventure movies. The sea outside is emerald and ripply. I sit with her. I laugh with her.

My journal, pen, computer, and electric bass mildew, mold, and rust in my office.

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