American Dreams
white fences, black nights
Theirs had never been a dramatic marriage—college sweethearts, his-and-hers wedding gifts; nearly the picket-fenced bungalow, if it had indoor plumbing.
A lost child to miscarriage—it's alright; they had another a year later. A lost job to the recession—she thinks it's alright; they’ll manage.
Ten o’clock, after Junior’s been tucked in; he’s later than usual from job-hunting. Liquor breath, hellfire eyes; he barely looks at her. She asks what’s wrong; his fist burrows below her eye.
“Nothing’s fucking perfect, that’s what’s wrong.”
A banged door, a stinging cheek; it's alright, it doesn't have anything on TV drama anyway.
A lost child to miscarriage—it's alright; they had another a year later. A lost job to the recession—she thinks it's alright; they’ll manage.
Ten o’clock, after Junior’s been tucked in; he’s later than usual from job-hunting. Liquor breath, hellfire eyes; he barely looks at her. She asks what’s wrong; his fist burrows below her eye.
“Nothing’s fucking perfect, that’s what’s wrong.”
A banged door, a stinging cheek; it's alright, it doesn't have anything on TV drama anyway.
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