For Them ~ fiction by Paul Attmere

I roll onto your side of the bed, still warm and a little damp from last night.

Since our son was born, you always pull out and cum on your side. The smell of semen and sweat lingers between silk sheets. But another child at the moment would be foolish. Cruel.

Running water from our en-suite bathroom. You’re back from your morning jog around the park. I slip on the silk robe you bought for my thirty-fifth birthday, close my eyes against the bright morning sun—already too hot through the French doors—and go downstairs to prepare your granola and Greek yogurt in our newly renovated kitchen.

You wash down two slices of my sourdough with two mugs of black coffee. Today’s a big day, a difficult one. Before you leave the house, I wipe a crumb lodged in the corner of your mouth and pull the knot on your tie just below that mole under your chin. It’s your cue to utter a word whispered every morning before we part: “Them.”

Your resolve needs tempering, so I don’t repeat as usual. I look into your green eyes and settle my gaze on your lips: more brown than red, like a wound in an apple where enzymes are reacting in a chemical process with oxygen—nature taking its remorseless course. “We must not assist, but resist Johnny,” I say. “You are on your own today, but I’m right behind you. Preparing the ground. Cleaning up.”

You press your lips to mine. The organic, fair-trade coffee blend is nutty on your breath. “Later,” I say. When you lurch towards me again, I push you against the wall. “After, you can do anything you want, Johnny.”

Like a sword from a sheath, you slip a long, black umbrella from the coat stand as if the promise of sexual favors has greased all your usual clumsy actions. You pause at the door.

“We’re okay?” you say.

“Everything’s fine, darling.” It’s been a long, hot summer with little talk of rain. The fields surrounding our house are burned biscuit brown, so everything is not okay. Still, I smile.

You march down the street, putting the parasol up against the heat as you pass our neighbor, Terry White. He stands back to admire his lawn sprinkler and the three buffed-up cars he keeps in his driveway.

Today, chin high and bag swinging from your shoulder, you look super middle-class—the type that’s happy with the order of things, and wouldn’t wish to rock the sinking ship.

You round the bend towards the train station with a confident swing in your hips. “You can do this, Johnny,” I whisper.

Our children are up. Giles padding across the bare floorboards to the toilet and Charlotte calling for a morning hug.

When you return on the last train from London, it’s dark. No sign of the weatherman’s promised thundery showers. You splay blood-stained hands on the stainless steel kitchen surface, where you like to dice our Sunday lunch vegetables.

“You didn’t wash your hands after?” I say.

“I found gloves in the office.”

“You put on gloves after you—?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“In this heat. You’ll have turned heads on the train.”

Your red hands look like an artist’s who has abandoned brushes in favor of a more visceral experience. I think of Pollock, how his paintings are a mess up close, but step back and there is an order to that chaos. I remind you of the bigger picture: “This is for them. Their future.”

The air is sweet and warm from almond biscuits baking in the oven. I guide you into the little toilet under the stairs. “Quick before the kids … give details later.”

Giles and Charlotte are at the top of the stairs, their little faces pressed against the balusters. Giles clutches the threadbare monkey you passed on to him when he was three, and Charlotte’s with the blanket she won’t let go of.

You run your hands under the tap and then I clean blood from under your manicured nails—cotton wool on the sharp end of a needle. Why won’t you stop whining about whether we’ve done the right thing?

Your business partner had what was coming to her, for flouting regulations on the disposal of plastics and driving an old diesel car when she could easily afford electric. When we’ve given up a car and travel everywhere on public transport, her attitude stank. And we’ve talked at length about what needs to be done with those who just don’t give a damn. Direct action is the only thing to move this sick world forward.

“The planet is better off without the likes of her,” I say. “We’ve done the right thing.”

You look up and appear to follow a crack in the ceiling to where it disappears under a plaster rose.

“Terry White’s next,” I say.

“What about Kylie at 54?”

“She’s joined my Vegan Baby Group on Facebook.”

Your voice wobbles. “I need to fill that crack.”

I push the needle deep under the nail until your eyes bulge. You’ll keep quiet for the kids. That’s why I love you, Johnny Price. You are stellar. I press my other hand—still almond sweet from rolling biscuit dough—over your mouth to muffle your yelps. “Remember, sweetheart, we’re doing this for them.”

Paul Attmere is an actor and writer. Originally from the UK he now lives with his family in Krakes, a small town in Lithuania. He’s been published in Spread the Word – Flight Journal, Running Wild Press Short Story Anthology, Sixfold Anthology, and is due to be published in Literati Magazine.