18 | Psychopomp Magazine
over themselves to be spoken. But my husband my husband where is he I want to see him where is my husband—
Lull in conversation, she forked noodles and Cheez sauce into her mouth, human automaton, what was the point in chewing what was the point in tasting, while he savored the bites, the return of warmth and food and texture and sensation. Life was a sensory explosion and he meant to experience it all again, but he had missed something. Her silence. Once upon a time he knew how to mend her woes, but now despite sitting at the table, together, again, physically occupying the same room, a wall stronger than death between them and he had forgotten how to talk.
—This tastes good, he said.
—It’s all fake, she said.
—It still tastes good, he said.
Carrots
—I have some of your medication, still, she said after a pause. I saved it, just in case. In case someone needed it, or maybe I could barter it if I had to. I don’t know if it’s good anymore. It’s probably expired by now.
—Thank you. He laughed, a short heh-heh wheeze. You know, I wonder if I even still need it.
Rice put the fork down, Velveeta orange smear on the tablecloth.
—Why didn’t you have it with you?
—I did, he answered. It was in my pocket. Where it always was.
—Then why didn’t you take it?