What She Didn’t See
The wringing of the hen’s neck. The cook in the kitchen, basting. The turn of the doorknob, the silence of it, the husband trooping through the door, his promise to return kept day after day, the dotting of i’s and crossing of t’s jostling for attention inside his worn leather satchel. Her son skittering on pond ice too thin for even his small bones. His red cap and cheeks. His dog, following. The maid setting the table for two. Gravy clotting cold around the carcass on the platter. Syrah staining lace. All this she was blind to, and more, gripped as she was in twilight’s spell, its wind-swell of quiet. The opiate’s open arms, its gray numbing. Her doll eyes set deep, dull, unblinking. The ice, thickening.
Mikki Aronoff writes and smooches on dogs in New Mexico. Her work appears in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, trampset, Milk Candy Review, and elsewhere. She has received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction nominations.
The Ekphrastic Review
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