The Chain

The Chain

By

Matt McGuire

Amanda savored her shower. She let the hot water flow down her face, cascading over her slim frame, over her small breasts, over the absent marks and swells of childbearing that should have been there, and she would have been glad for them to be there, but they weren't-- damn it, her body was perfect.

As the remains of her shower drained into the sea, hindered briefly by an alarming amount of golden tufts in the drain, Amanda toweled herself off with little, monogrammed pats, and then wrapped her long, natural blond hair into a bun and wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror. She felt the soft elasticity of her cheek with her fingers spread slightly. She searched for soul in her reflection, in her blue irises, then on into the dilated singularity, a vortex, myriad nameless fears and some with names endorsed by the AMA, a hundred secrets, infidelity to herself, her mother's cool reserve, her father's absenteeism, a baby's small hand grasping a lock of yellow hair tied in a pink ribbon, and then nothing. Back to the present. She realized her hand was trembling and she reached for a tube of moisturizer wedged between the toothpaste and an orange bottle of Cisplatin.

"I'm good.". Breathe in. "I'm good". Breathe out. Seventy times, Amanda repeated her mantra while lying under Egyptian cotton with her husband's box fan tussling the ends of her hair gently on the pillow. Bryan lay next to her, sleeping soundly, still, immovable, stoic in an REM trance.

"I'm scared, Bryan."

Silence, save the box fan rumble and a passing sedan.

"I wanted her. Why, Bryan? She could have been here for you when it's over."

Amanda's husband shifted a little, peeking his toes out to receive the cool breeze of the fan and continued his oblivious journey through neverland.

"I don't love you anymore. I haven't loved you for years. If I had longer, I'd want a divorce. I know you're fucking Elizabeth. I suppose it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore."

Bryan tossed a little in his sleep, tugged at the covers and rolled over and to the left, both legs embracing the cool air cascading over and around their king sized mattress.

"I suppose you don't care anymore. Maybe you never cared. Maybe you never loved me. Father's money was a nice boon though, wasn't it? Bought you your seven series and those 'business' trips you've been taking to the Caymans. You didn't even show for my last consultation. I'm fucked, Bryan, fucked and all you can do is sleep and say, 'it'll be okay'. Well, it's not okay. It's never been fucking okay and obviously it never will. Fuck you and your sleep. Fuck you and your whores, and your fucking sly adulteries with my sister and the remains of my father's fortune, and your seven series, and your Caymans, and your tan, and your Cialis, and your cancer free body and your smug indifference. I'll be dead in two months if you're lucky. Please Bryan, just don't get married again before my body is cold..."

Amanda rolled over and to the right to separate any part of her body or night clothing from Bryan's perimeter. Soft sobbing ebbed into small whimpers and then only the sound of the box fan could be heard as Bryan quietly twirled his wedding band with his thumb before crossing his fingers, shooting a glance at the ceiling, and going to sleep in earnest.