Tempered

Gray light. His nails are gnawed, but his fingers are soft and clean. His shirt is buttoned. His belt tight. Shoes shined. School starts today.

He’s not going.

He knows they’re arguing. They argue every morning. The house is modern, stark and neat. The staircase and living room are lined with elegant glass walls. Some with bubbles or etchings, but usually – just glass. He can see them.

“What is this?” The man pulls his hands from her purse. A bottle.

“It’s nothing.” She lashes at the purse.

“You said you’d stopped.”

“I need them.” She clutches the purse while shuffling towards the door. It’s over.

The man makes no motion to stop her. He knows it is.

Upstairs the boy watches from the hall, like a statue. He rubs the blunt nubs of his fingers against each other. Eighth grade isn’t that important.

The man runs his hands through his hair, standing in the kitchen. He stares at the counter.  A bowl of artificial fruit stares back.

From the balcony he looks down. He’s seen this before. He’s felt this before. The white carpet brushes under his spotless shoes while he walks to the staircase. He sits neatly on the top step, trying to salvage the creases in his Dockers.

The phone rings.

“Yeah. I can make it,” the man says.

The phone whips shut. The man straightens his hair, buttons his shirt and sweeps his blazer over his shoulder. It’s time to go.

He sees it all through the glass side-panels of the staircase. It’s time to go. He stands and brushes the bits of white carpet from his black slacks and shoes, checking again for scuffs and stains. Still clean.

The man swivels his suitcase towards the door. Cell phone, charger, razor, cologne, spare suit, aspirin – check.

“Dad?”

The man stops. “It’s business, son.” He opens the door, and wheels his suitcase down the driveway. The French door drifts shut, and the glass spits gray droplets on the walls.



He looks at his shoes. A scuff. Maybe some cold water will wash it off. He grabs his crested jacket while walking toward the sliding glass door. Spacious white walls seem to pass by in slow motion, blinking and whispering. The back yard is covered in leaves. Dead, gray and brown leaves. He stares at the thin, floating cover on the pool. It’s covered with leaves too.

Maybe this water is cold enough. He watches his breath.  It has to be.

He stands with his back facing the water. His heels on the edge, set in watery mud. Arms outstretched.

Let go.

The sky seeps through the cracks in the clouds. It looks like rain. The pool cover mouths and coils to the bottom. Sealed. Tossed to life, the leaves dance on the water.

The cover settles.

The surface settles.

Glass.