The Sprout

The furnace rumbles to life as the clock hits 7:02am. Your chest rises and falls again my spine.

I have been wide awake for several minutes, staring at the gray, concrete wall inches from my face. My thoughts do not race or jog. They walk in a casual but continuous stride through the center of my mind.

The hairs on your leg scrape against mine as you stir from sleep. I consider turning and wrapping my chains around your neck.

Instead, I turn and kiss you. You are surprised at first, and then you kiss me back. As our breaths deepen I let go of that last piece of resistance. In your arms, I become the perfect wife, the girl of your dreams. As if I was always meant for this; for you.

We make love for the first time since I came here. I barely notice the tinkling sound of the shackles over the slow creak of the bed and the feeling of you.

When it’s over, I rise and begin making breakfast. You follow, and soon the smell of fresh coffee joins the scent of eggs and bacon in the air. We eat in amiable silence, and when you leave for work I return to the backyard to work in the garden. The sky is clear and blue all day. When you come home that night, we eat dinner before watching a documentary on the T.V., huddled close together like teenagers. The clock hits 10pm, and you stretch out beside me on the bed instead of going upstairs. I only wake briefly after having a nightmare, and a few minutes of hushed words and soothing hands is all it takes before I fall back asleep.

The following day we do the same thing, and the next day, and the day after that, until it becomes our unspoken routine.

We wake up, make love, eat breakfast, and then you go to work in the office while I work in the garden. At night you cook dinner for us, experimenting with new recipes. After cleaning up from the meal, we slow dance in the kitchen to the fuzzy sound of the radio. On the weekends, you watch me garden while tossing the frisbee to Milo. Staying true to your word, you sleep beside me every night. I have become used to the feel of your weight on the other side of the bed and the sound of your light snoring.

Days turn into weeks like this. The spring crispness turns into a sweet warmth, green bursting forth from the trees. The seeds I have planted in the garden have begun to sprout, growing into tulips and daisies and roses of every color. They are new, and do not scare me. Birds sing and flitter around the yard, snatching worms and grubs from the soil and bringing them back to the hungry mouths of their chicks. When I am not outside, I wash and iron your work clothes. You change out my shackles for newer ones with a longer chain and more padding by the ankles.

The gentle warmth of spring turns into sticky summer heat as June rolls into July. The garden flourishes with the addition of beach grass and butterfly bushes, the latter of which attracts a kaleidoscope of monarch and swallowtail butterflies.

When the air is too oppressive even for me, I take breaks to stand under the chilly stream of the garden hose. Eventually, you join me there and we take turns spraying each other - and Milo, who somehow always ends the day covered in dirt and mulch.

Some days, you show up in the evening with a new plant and then you help me install it into the backyard. When we finish, sweaty and covered in dirt, we collapse under the shade of the oak tree. Our hands stay loosely tangled together as we watch the sun set. In a low murmur, you tell me the story of how you fell for me. How you felt completely out of control on our first date, entranced by my flushed cheeks and bright eyes. How you went homehome knowing we would be together. I talk about the day you came home with a shy, shivering puppy in your arms. You said that it was ours now, and it would keep me company. Holding that warm puppy in my arms was the first time I had smiled in months. I whisper how it opened my heart to you. We trade pieces of each other back and forth like this in the fading summer sun until the mosquitoes drive us inside for the night. When you stand cooking at the stove, your cheeks red from the sun and your feet bare, I almost believe we are a normal couple in love.

Almost.

It’s not until late August that the boiling temperature is finally broken by an unusually cool breeze, the first whisper of the crackly autumn to come.

I let the breeze weave through the strands of my hair and across the sweat slicked skin of my neck as I survey the backyard.

In one corner my flower garden overflows with colors of mauve, lavender, gold, and emerald. In another corner is a pair of young trees, one lemon and the other jasmine. The juvenile trees stand guardian over a bird bath - a gurgling oasis made of cool blue stone. Nearby, around the tall oak tree is a small gravel circle occupied by a simple bench on one side and a hanging swing on the other, the latter of which is suspended from one of the oak's low hanging branches. Scattered along the remaining sides of the yard are bushes of various types: forsythia, rose bushes, and holly bushes to the left, and the fruit-bearing bushes - raspberry and blueberry, because they are your favorite - to the right. The raspberry bush limbs hang heavy with nearly ripe fruit. The blueberry bushes are bare.

When I hear your car approaching, I ignite the torch lighter in my hand. A minute later, you emerge from the house onto the back patio, your eyes reflecting orbs of light.

I discovered an old case of string lights in the hall closet earlier today. Now they hang suspended across the yard in an elegant row. I smile at you from where I stand underneath the lights, holding up a homemade blueberry and lemon cake with one large candle in the middle.

“Happy 1 year anniversary,” I say.

You laugh, and the uninhibited joy in the sound lashes at my skin. You meet me with a passionate kiss before slicing into the cake with a spatula I hand you.

I watch you take your first bite. You hum in approval, going in for a second bite. I turn on the radio - which I brought up from the basement - and surf the stations until I find a smooth jazz station. We dance under the string lights, your hand on the small of my back and the other holding one of mine. I lay my head on your chest as a tear escapes my eye. I feel it roll down my cheek and into the cotton fabric of your button-down.

As the song winds down, your movements slow, as do mine. Your shoe catches on something in the grass, and you stumble. I slip an arm around your waist to hold you steady. Suddenly, your legs give out, and we both go crashing to our knees. I hold you until your arms fall away from me to hang limply at your side. Then I search your pockets.

You’ve become lazy recently, opting to keep my keys on you at all times. Of course, you never realized the significance of the poppies that had bloomed so beautifully among the other flowers in our garden. Or suspected they could be a cause for concern.

Half an hour later, I am standing over your prone form wearing a pair of your old hiking boots and plain clothes. The breeze tickles my bare ankles where the shackles used to be. I took the liberty of transferring them to your wrists, since your ankles were too thick. I slide the keys into my back pocket, before bending down to give you one last kiss.

Milo waits for me at the sliding door, his tail between his legs. My chest squeezes painfully because I know I cannot take him with me if I want to move as quickly as I need to. I give him one last pet before I force myself to move. The last thing I grab is cash from your wallet and an old, unmarked baseball hat.

I am out the door before the sun fully sets, feeling surprisingly calm. When I reach the nearest gas station, I use their phone to call 911. I give the operator your address, and tell them what they will find. Then I hang up before they can ask me any more questions.

I get on a bus and then a train and then another bus. I don’t stop moving until I reach somewhere far, far away from you.