Her body seemed to glow out from the deep shine of the polished living room floor, a mix of pink and white that defied the emptiness of the room. From the entryway he looked down on her, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a scotch.

“Not tonight,” he said.

She rolled onto her side with a sigh.

She was permitted no clothes in the empty room during the hours she was required to lay there. He, likewise, was not permitted to join her. He would stand, drink. She would find new positions, always fresh despite limited number available to her imagination. The time would pass with some bits of conversation, but more often than otherwise the minutes would slip by with each in quiet contemplation of the other. Work was never discussed, as an example. The hours spent at the gym to maintain the shapes that pleased them, likewise, went unmentioned. When the prescribed time had passed, he would hold out a robe; she would refuse, opting instead to undress him at the entryway and invite him in. Sometimes he would wear the antlers.

It was a good marriage. They squabbled in public to maintain appearances but never while alone. He’d rehearse the scripts she’d written for his discourse with friends and coworkers on the pitfalls of marriage—the jokes and snipes—and deliver them with the wit and candor of something purely organic and true. To those she met throughout the course of her day she’d grumble over finances (which had never been a problem), or some exorbitant purchase (which had never been made), or some thoughtless dismissal of some dear thought (which was unthinkable in its improbability). And so, to the world they knew, their marriage seemed quite appropriate and fine, as well.

The antlers themselves were nothing special. They’d been agreed upon wordlessly by the two on an anniversary trip to Canada. They’d determined no specific value for their use, written no rules or games. He would wear them, though, when the mind liked the notion, and there was something in that that each could sense and neither had felt the need to name.

In his dreams, when he had them, he was never a stag. He had killed them in dreams, though. He had spied them from hideys in derelict high-rises, crossing empty streets and sniffing at gutters. He had stalked them. It was his only recurring dream, and it never struck him as odd—little of anything did.

He’d met her on a transit authority train. She was sitting in a jump seat. He was standing. They met eyes throughout the ride, ultimately agreeing silently to disembark at a station belonging to neither. They walked, no words, hands holding, for several blocks before parting at an unfamiliar intersection. Nothing odd, only things appropriate to their position in time and space. When she later appeared at his door, he didn’t consider how it was possible or whether it was appropriate. Instead, he invited her in. They’d been together since.

There came occasions for learning names and arranging roles, of course, but they came organically as necessity demanded. In their silences there were no things resembling secrets, and, in such, their curiosity for minute details was in short supply. He’d never, for instance, met her parents—nor she his. That her father had died during their time together, that his had remarried, divorced, and remarried again were matters which seemed devoid of consequence in the succession of days. She knew he’d been promoted or given a raise by the material offsets in their lives. Their homes would grow. The brand he drank would change. Their trips, always unplanned, would last longer and longer.

“Will you wear the antlers?” she would say.

“Not tonight,” would be his reply.

She would sigh, rolling to rest her head on her outstretched arm.

It was the most they’d known between them of conflict. The question. The answer. These were the only things left to chance or whim.

Timestamp: 07.27.07 at 09:54 AM. Filed under: Fiction.