Kate Kremer is a writer, translator, and dramaturge. Her work has appeared in Red Branch Journal, Encore Magazine, The Stranger, and the Kenyon Review blog. She writes for the Seattle Repertory Theatre blog and the Remy Bumppo Field Guide.
Big day yesterday. Baked loaf of bread less dense than brick; solved four-month mystery dead mouse smell: dead mouse. Not in the walls, but middle of the room, plain sight. Died on photograph same color it was—explains why we didn’t see it. (Eh, clean your goddamn house). Paid landlord, invited wife and him to dinner end of month. He apologized for poking round out back; we hadn't seen. Kid missing, known him since he's so high; didn't get back from bar the other night. Lifted up the storm hatch just to check. Fair enough—we don't have good record finding dead things.
My wife runs. She goes running for miles in the hills above our house, be gone for hours. She goes out dancing, too. There are three of them: blonde, brunette, and a redhead—they call themselves the Russian Angels. My wife is hot. They go out, three of them, and dance all night. Break hearts. No, I don't dance. My wife? Used to be a gymnast on the Ukraine team. Her toes could break any bone in my body. She broke her son's finger. Twice. With her toes. She didn't mean to. She was just trying to show him what strong was.
This morning, she didn't notice the car parked cantwise in the drive. She looked up. What is it, her father asked. I thought I heard a plane, she said. She’d known he’d been drinking last night when he picked her up—she could hear it. The trouble parking was only the most explicit sign: backing over the prehistoric ferns, monstrous in the hell of the tails, the Braille of their spores crushed to nothing. Last night, she couldn’t help it, she said, You gonna straighten that up? But this morning she was better. This morning she didn’t even see it.