Fiction: My first wife

by John Jodzio, mnartists.org • June 24, 2008 • It was our anniversary and we celebrated with a cupcake and a single candle. I’d found some walkie-talkies in the dumpster and you ran outside to see if they worked. I sat at the kitchen table and listened as you told me that you thought you heard “truckers in between the static of us.”

The next year, I brought you a rock polisher I’d found at a garage sale. I know, I know, not very romantic. Still, you once had told me that you adored polished agates like the ones you saw in the bins at the curiosity shoppes. You told me that you liked the idea of holding a piece of rough earth in your hand and then hours later seeing it buffed it to a high shine.

I remember that you read the instructions for the rock polisher to me out loud. It was hot and we were sitting on that shit brown couch of ours that we’d found on the curb and huffed the 14 blocks home. As you read, your voice was full and confident, like you were announcing a fire sale on tires or carpet. Be prepared for the constant sound of rolling rocks, you announced. Be prepared for the constant noise.

I laughed it off—how loud could it really be, I said, how loud?

Only when we started it up did we know. It was incredible, that sound. It was like there was an airplane passing right over the top of us, swallowing up everything we said. I kept telling you to switch it off, but you could not understand me. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded wrong and hissing.

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