The Scream

The Scream

The Scream

t is one of those mornings when it’s hard for her to get out from under the sheets, as if her body weighed more than usual. Tons weighing down her arms and each of the hairs on her legs. She rubs her right eye with three slow swipes of the hand, her elbow grazing her husband’s back. He barely stirs; his body, sunk into the mattress, hardly reacts. A soft groan. No one likes waking up on a Saturday morning. She rubs her other eye even more slowly. She should go buy bread and other breakfast supplies, but she doesn’t want to, deep down she doesn’t want to. Where has my discipline gone? She coils up in the sheets again. She sticks one foot out and feels the chill of early November. She immediately tucks it back in, enjoying the softness of the fabric. It is cool, but nothing like the cold of the puna; this thought comforts her.