In Irons
Sarah Bichsel
Peter woke up and the tight feeling in his chest returned. It came like literal clockwork, piggybacking off his 6:30 alarm and twisting to life as soon as he opened his eyes. Sometimes, in those first moments of the morning, he would stretch and yawn and trick himself into thinking it was drifting away on its own, but the clearer his conscience became, the stronger the feeling clung to him, like some forgotten Fourth Law of Newton. His wife Erica was still asleep beside him and would be for another 20 minutes. He preferred to shower before work, and she preferred those extra minutes inside her subconscious. He would’ve felt the same if he had to go through the nightmare of teaching elementary school. Luckily first graders were too young and impatient to learn graphic design, so he didn’t have to deal with them –– just the old and impatient adults they grew up to be. He pulled himself up to the edge of the bed, every muscle aching. He sat there and counted to five before he dragged his body upward, made his feet move toward the bathroom. As he waited for the shower to warm, he ran his hands across his slightly wrinkled temples. At 48, his hair was now patched with silver, and his body felt smaller, more delicate than it used to. His face had always been petite, sharp slits of green eyes embedded in a miniature frame. He’d never had any fat or strong muscle to speak of, just straight skin and some bones to hold it steady. His hand grazed his stomach, and he wondered if he should be working out more, which sent the tightness in his chest stabbing left and right. By the time 7:30 rolled around, he and Erica were both in the kitchen eating breakfast. She sat across from him wearing jeans and a giant turtleneck sweater that billowed out and covered any clue of what her body type might be underneath. Her hair was thrown together into a half bun, half ponytail. “What’s the point of dressing up? Those kids would have a nice blouse covered in glue in seconds,” she’d often say, even on days when school wasn’t in session. Peter was staring at the wall, grinding his teeth on Fiber One cereal. He was so absorbed in thought he missed the question. “Peter, did you hear what I said?” Erica asked, her blue eyes slightly narrowed. “Sorry, no. I was thinking about work.” “I’ll be home late tonight,” she repeated. “When will you get back?” “I’m going to try to be out of there at 7. Assuming we get the final draft of the posters printed on time.” 63