Fiction: The Housewife

Posted: June 11, 2015 in Uncategorized

On the front page of today’s newspaper is a picture of a sculpture of a nude woman. Next to it stands the artist and creator, an Adonis of sorts, with his arms wrapped around its clay legs, gazing upward, his long blond hair flowing to his shoulders. Such a magnificent work of art in a male, I’d never envisioned in all my days. Forget the sculpture; forget that I am a happily married woman with eight children in school and another on the way. I am woman and housewife!

I’m not sure if this is daydream or real. Clutching the paper to my chest, I am not certain if I am here or there; I don’t know where I am. I glance to my steaming coffee and wonder what’s in it. I hear an auctioneer sing out “sold” and he informs me I’ve bought the artist and a trip to Tahiti with him. And the sculpture. Hey, why is the auctioneer in my home and why am I there? I’ve never won anything in my life, but a bid is payment or so I think. How dare he interrupt this moment? At this point, I don’t know if I’m here or there. A thunderstorm looms overhead and rain pours down, so hard that the ceiling gives way and with it the tenant in Apt. 13 with her bathtub and she is still in it, curlers in hair, lathered in bubbles. Water everywhere and I scream. How dare she ruin my plans to travel to Tahiti with the Adonis. She is a conspirator with the auctioneer. Someone is out to ruin my day.

The thunderstorm worsens. Unfolding the newspaper, I hand it to the bubbled tenant in the bathtub and request she cover herself with it and I call the apartment manager. Opening the door to allow entrance, he looks at me in a strange way. I turn and am horrified. There is no bubble-covered tenant in a bathtub, no leak on the roof and the sun is shining and the birds are singing. Gasping, I apologize to the manager and watch him depart, shaking his head. He leaves me to wonder where the auctioneer and the Adonis went. I’ve bid and bought him.

I plop down on the sofa and realize I still have the newspaper clutched in hand and glance once more, for there is the sculpture and the creator, just as plain as day––in the newspaper. I run to the fireplace and light the paper, for I must be rid of any evidence of my indiscretions or did I have any of whatever that means. I think I am nuts. As the smoke goes up and the paper burns to ash, I sigh in relief. Soon my overweight husband will be home with our eight children and I will be happy once more. I sigh with relief until I hear a voice and glance to the corner of the room. “What about me?” asked the Adonis. “I thought we were going to Tahiti. My sculpture goes with us.” My eyes spin like the prelude to The Twilight Zone, my favorite show and I scream.

  1. I love this, but it was rushed, so excuse lack of edit.


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