Seepage
Thea could hide the pink bills in her purse as she brought them into the house from the mailbox. No one could see the DISCONNECT notices from a driving-by car, a peek out the kitchen window, or even walking the family dog down the street.
Six months had passed two times, and still the water kept pouring in over her. She could hear the whispers of her friends, Thank God there are no children to think of. Thank God, indeed, she echoed, not even closing her eyes anymore as she submerged.
Thea lived on the first floor of a two-story house. Upstairs were three bedrooms, two with doors open. In one was a jumble of boxes half-unpacked, books and photos and notebooks flowing in a stream of dust at sunset when the sun’s last rays flickered through the prism of warped glass and cracked shade. Another door exposed a bed unmade, covers caught wrinkled in the midst of a floe. An alluvium of clothes and shoes littered the edges of the still mattress pond.
The third door remained closed.
Thea would stand at the sink in the kitchen, eyes staring unseeing out the window, deafened by the rush of the tap water. Each day, she dirtied one bowl, one spoon, one plate, one fork, and one glass and washed them all each evening in the kitchen sink, rinsing each far longer than necessary. When the dishes were cleaned and rinsed, Thea placed them on the counter, spoon in bowl, fork on plate, glass next to plate.
When the sun had truly sunk and all color had drained from the sky, she turned out the light in the kitchen and moved to the sofa in the living room. Somewhere between the kitchen and the couch, two talismans appeared in Thea’s hands. In her right hand, she carried a man’s watch, heavy and silver and silent. In her left hand was something small. The main of it was clenched tightly in her fist, invisible, but if a car drove by on the street outside, its guide lights might illuminate something pale blue between her fingers. A ribbon, perhaps, tied to a small silver charm, perhaps.
Thank God there are no children to think of. Thank God, indeed. She no longer fought to breathe when she submerged.