The Fisher King

Tying the final knots, Lisa lashed together panhandles and lids, serving spoons and colanders, the staircase below tumbling into the tiny hallway.

The first time she came, Karl showed her in, finger to her lips.

In the living room, his Dad on the sofa, eyes half closed, wheezing, clear tubes under his nose hissing oxygen, face and hair grey.

Taking dinner in silence, Karl’s mother delicately rested plates on folded tea towels, slipping used cutlery into the sink without a sound. Water slowly heated on the hob became tepid coffee.

Outside, she asked Karl why.

“He needs peace and quiet to get better. Respect that.”

After Lisa moved in, silence. No words, no arguments; a life in fear of avalanche. The small room she and Karl shared overlooked a yard filled with yellow skeleton plants in pots, a dirt-misted greenhouse choked with weeds.

Unmoving, the wheezing grey man ruled the house.

Every night in darkness, touching and teasing Karl until he bit his lips bloody, pushing a pillow into her mouth, Lisa wanted to holler out her challenge.

Kicking the pans forward, hearing them clatter and scrape, her noise brought the house back to life, the king’s last power dispelled.