by Charles Lennox
An argument. An argument by grandfather’s armoire. A husband exiting the dining room and then returning half a minute later. A sound like picture frame glass cracking under a boot heel, once and then twice. A wife of six years standing in the doorframe. Behind her see the window and out that window see a neighbor edging his front lawn. An argument escalating in volume and velocity. A husband baring teeth chiseled square. A wife grabbing her emergency suitcase and walking out the front door, the argument taken to the street. A husband bringing up that time in Bakersfield. A neighbor down in a squat, counting the cut blades of grass. A sound of a commercial plane overhead. A wife wishing she could transform into a balloon and fly away and never have to land or refuel. A husband mouthing off like some unknown beast, on hands and knees, foaming white mad. Ready to pounce and bite at the throat and thrash his head side to side. A neighbor dialing the number to Animal Control. A sound of dead leaves scraping across the driveway, a sound of wind chimes colliding. A neighbor keeping his distance from the beast in the street. A husband, circling slowly. A wife catching the wind in her dress like a boat sail. On the move now down the street, feet no longer on the pavement. A husband in a dead run, chomping at her toenails. A neighbor watching the balloon in the sky as it scales up the clean air, quick bursts of fire torching the air within, until it reaches the cotton stretched clouds and looks nothing like a balloon at all.Charles Lennox hates hates hates cilantro, the smell, the taste.
