Husband On Monkey Rocker [work]

The words hung in the air, sharp and glittering. Frank looked exhausted. Laura looked at him—really looked. His hair was thinning. His shoulders were slumped. And on his face was the expression of a man who had spent thirty years doing everything right, only to realize that “right” felt exactly like drowning.

“It’s not for anything,” he said, his voice taking on a defensive, almost reverent tone. “It is . It’s folk art. Or… kinetic sculpture. I got it off a guy in Dubuque.” husband on monkey rocker

“Don’t help,” he grunted, sawing through the packing tape with a steak knife. The words hung in the air, sharp and glittering

“Faster?” Laura asked.