"I awake to a shooting pain in my lower back, sharp and piercing, and my immediate assumption is that my wife is trying to stab me again.
When I roll over to face her though, she is not there, and I recall that I am not sure whether she is supposed to be there at all.
I climb out of bed slowly, the pain in my back now paralyzing, and I squeeze my eyes shut as little dots of light bounce across my brain.
Stumbling down the hall, the air is moist, the carpet spongy to the touch, and the stink of the flood is still lingering in the walls. I try to focus on one breath, then the next, lips pursed, cheeks sinking in and out, and in again.
My wife is sitting on the couch eating a bowl of cereal in the dark, her long hair backlit and shimmering in the moonlight creeping through the blinds, a small ethereal glow emanating from her flawless, nearly translucent skin.
“Hey,” she says in her husky voice, the word disappearing in a puff of smoke even as it leaves her mouth.
“Hey,” I say, “problem sleeping?”
“Not really,” she says smiling.
“No, I suppose not,” I say, “now is that because you’re not really supposed to be here, because I’m thinking that maybe that’s what it is.”
“Maybe,” she says, turning back to her cereal.
A slight clanking sound is emitted each time the spoon hits the side of the bowl. She always hated that sound, but maybe that was before.
“Cool,” I say, “I mean not cool, not really, but fine. Anyway, did you try and stab me again?”
“No,” she says, “why would you ask that? It was just that one time, and that was like an accident.”
“As accidentally as stabbing someone in the back can be,” I say, not angrily, though maybe a little nostalgic for what we once had."
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