Solutions
by Max Conroy
Edvard grimaced at the stain on his trousers. Stosia would mock him for being such an oaf. Perhaps he should remain at work until much later when she would be in bed, or better yet, asleep. Yesterday had been their thirty-fifth anniversary and she had spent the entire evening reciting her litany of grievances against him. She told him how she hated their life together, how she hated their flat, how she hated him and his ridiculous hobby of constructing cathedrals out of matchsticks. Why didn't he make any money? Why didn't he buy her better furniture? Why hadn't she left him? Why hadn't she married Milton when he'd asked her? He was a podiatrist now making good money in the city, living in a nice apartment. That should've been her apartment. She said she would leave him except that she was too old now and no one would have her. She said that he'd sucked the life out of her. As she went on and on, he imagined what it would be like to literally suck the life out of her. Where would he need to stick the straw to best expedite the process? Perhaps, if he plunged a stainless steel straw into her heart he would be able to actually suck the remainder of her evil, little life from her withered, old body. The thought had made him smile briefly, until she slapped him and yelled,"You think this is funny?" No. He would not be going home anytime soon, but what would he do with the hours between now and when she would go to bed? He wondered how he had survived thirty-five years with this woman. He thought about thirty-five times three hundred, sixty-five. That's how many days she'd tormented him. Five times five is twenty-five— carry the two—five times six is thirty— thirty plus two is thirty-two—carry the three—wait, is that right? He thought about getting out pencil and paper, but then the thought occurred to him that this was exactly what he needed. He would put on his coat and take a walk and do the math problem over and over in his head—thirty-five times three hundred, sixty-five—until he was certain that he'd gotten it right. And then he would take the whole thing times twenty-four, for the hours of his life she'd made miserable. He'd have to make sure to add an additional twenty-five to that sum and then take all it times sixty in order to acknowledge every tortured minute over the years. And finally, if he needed more time, he'd take it all times sixty again for every miserable, wasted second of the past three and a half decades. Then he'd go home and somehow get rid of his pants and then work on Chartres in the basement for a few more hours before finally going up to bed. It was a good plan. Maybe he'd do this every night from now on. Or maybe, one of these nights, he'd stop by the hardware store and see if they had anything like a stainless steel straw.
Max Conroy teaches English in northwest Arkansas where he lives with his family.