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She thought about Steven and the disc and about pressing her lips down on those plastic curves, pushing hard on them until she pressed her face into his. Pushed past his skin and through his bone and into the quiet warm space underneath, her eyes shut, cell to cell, both unarmed. In there, she thought, inside his mind and flooded with blood, without windows or doors or her knitting or his chair, maybe in there she could hold their faces in her hands and consider something like forgiveness.

She stood up and the young man reached out his unflowered hand, wanting to pull her to him, wanting her attention again.

Really, he said, I would rescue you, you know, what you were saying before.

Yeah, she said, I’m sure you’d try.

She started back along the path and he followed her. He was so young, he just talked about himself again and she tuned out and watched the shadows of the trees cut lines into the ground. She kicked a few rocks. Back in the parking lot, she held out her hand and grasped his for a second. He had a firm grip.

Come back, I’ll give you more free gum, he said, handing her back her flowers.

Okay, she said, I can always use free gum.

He walked away, looking confused, not really sure what happened, if he was rejected or not. Mary threw the gardenias into the passenger seat, climbed into her car and drove home. She forgot the rest of the groceries and left them in the trunk. Later, when she went to get them, it was only the milk that had spoiled, releasing its warm dank odor on the air.

Instead she scooped up the flowers and went in to see Steven. He was in his chair, taking a nap. She stood above him and watched him twitch, his hands fluttering as if he’d been drugged. He was in her house: her husband, the love of her life. He was back. He made it. He left; he returned. She wanted to know him again, to enter the nightmare and be in there with him, to fight the demons with her own good weapons. She wanted to join him, but the chair was too small and his brain was his only and all she saw in the ditch were sweaters and a too light sky.

She reached out to shake him awake but her hand stopped in the air and wouldn’t go farther. No hand was reaching out for her. Stirring in his sleep, he let out a clipped yell. Mary kneeled on the carpet.

Steven, she whispered, I miss you so, but everything is fine at home.

Steven, she said, the neighbors got a dog and I am growing out my hair.

She bowed her head. Removing the plastic wrap, she very carefully kissed the bouquet of gardenias and then placed it onto his stomach.

Here love, she said, I brought you some flowers.

She kept her head low. Steven stirred and eyes blinking, woke up to the smell of the gardenias.

-Mary-, he said, -flowers-, how-beautiful.

She put her hands over her ears and started to cry.

THE BOWL

Let me open it up for you.

There’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday. You feel wonderful, you feel like somebody knows you’re alive, you feel fear because it could be a bomb, because you think you’re that important.

When you open the wrapping (there’s no card), you find a bowl, a green bowl with a white interior, a bowl for fruit or mixing. You’re puzzled, but obediently put four bananas inside and then go back to whatever you were doing before: a crossword puzzle. You wonder and hope this is from a secret admirer but if so, you think, why a bowl? What are you to learn and gain from a green and white fruit bowl?

This is when you think about the last lover you had and feel bad about yourself. This is when you stand with your pencil poised over the crossword puzzle and stare at the wall. This is when you laugh out loud, alone, to yourself, at something funny he said once about crossword puzzles and feel ridiculous for still being able to be entertained by this lover of yore who slept facing the wall and wanted less than you wanted.

You want a lot.

You go to make yourself a cup of tea and while you’re prepping your mug you spill