The Orchid

Sunday, early evening sliding down over the rooftops. there I was in the garden, listening to them. that couple going at each other. screams, rage climbing and splitting, no pause, no breath between. just noise pouring over the fence.

the same things they’ve been saying since August.

I leaned in, parted the leaves slow so they wouldn’t rustle. looked through the hedge where the old hydrangeas hung heavy. the petals shivered in the draft.

his hands were around her throat. big hands, squeezing like he’d decided something. her fingers opening and closing in the air, then a slap, flat and final. the sound bounced off the patio stones. an orchid on the table sat there in the grey light. one leaf split down the middle.

the pots around it drank the damp off the day. behind them, the pool stood flat and open to the sky, no cover on it. there hadn’t been a cover on in August either.

inside the house, the children sat in the television’s blue light. faces still. watching whatever moved on the screen, not turning once. they heard every scream and every slap through the open door. they stayed exactly where they were. the evening kept coming down anyway.

nobody was watching.
no net across the pool,
the toddler under.