Brushfire Issue #61 vol. 2

al Airport, resulting in the deaths of 228 people. People are being massacred in Algeria.

He would clear his throat and stare into the carpet.

“We need to do something,” he would say, looking up at her between sentences. Waiting for a response, an expression. Something. But she just stared at the dining room table as if it held some answer.

And it was quiet, save for the television. He could hear her swallow.

“Are you miserable?” he would say. “Because I’m not doing too well.”

She looked up at him. “You’re miserable?”

“I am, Miranda.”

Ninety-eight are killed in the Rais Massacre.

“I’m sorry, but I am,” he said.

“What do you want to do?” her voice trembling. “What are you trying to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” He was raising his voice. “We’re not okay. We fight.”

“All couples fight. What makes us any special? My parents fought.

They still fight. Look at them.”

“Your mother is miserable,” he said. “Besides, it’s different. They come from a different generation. You can’t compare us to them, Miranda!” His voice louder, falling between the cracks of their home, into their suburban neighborhood.

It was silent again. They were looking away from each other. She drank her wine. Sam heard her swallow. And he didn’t know what to think of that.

“Do you still love me?” she asked. Like she had been asking every night before they fell asleep. Not as a question, though. As a statement.

She would say she loved him just to hear whether or not he said it back.

Questioning him. But never herself.

“Of course, I do,” his voice rose in defense. “What kind of question is that?”

She finished her wine and pushed the glass away from here. She sat up straight.

“We can fix this, Sam,” she said. “This thing happens all the time.

People fix these things all the time. We can too.”

Sam sat down next to Miranda at the dinner table. His hands fell into his lap. Void of ideas. He was wearing his jacket. He had planned to leave. Assuming that things would get out of hand, he had a plan to 43