"Junebug" by Kavya Kamath
It’s the final countdown blog post!
To round out this year of creative writing, here's one last short story!
Junebug
Unfamiliar perfume on his collar, disheveled hair when he walked in the door, even on days when it wasn’t windy, late nights in the ward; I knew the symptoms, the signs. I’d even venture to say they were far too familiar for such a picket-fence, house-in-the-suburbs type of couple like ourselves. Sometimes I wondered if I was the cause of some of them; I knew I was a failure of a housewife.
But I didn’t dwell on that thought too long; my phone chimed with a text, and it was well-enough for a distraction. I typed out a response, the name of my recipient had fallen from my lips far too many times, but I didn’t dwell on that either. Michael would be home soon, a lovely casserole was waiting in the oven for both of us, and it was almost ready.
I plodded over to the kitchen, admiring the array of photos lining the walls on my way there. Michael was a brilliant businessman with a penchant for photography. Artistic close-ups of grass, trees, and the flower garden I kept out back adorned the slabs of baby blue. That flower garden used to be my pride and joy. With vivid yellow tulips, deep indigo petunias, and blood red hibiscuses, I would spend hours and hours weeding, watering, and worshiping that garden. Protecting it from pesky beetles, mangy deer, and sneaky weeds was the sole purpose of my days, other than tending to Michael of course. But then I started getting more distracted, I let myself get distracted, when I realized that I was putting all of this work in for nothing. I could devote my life to those budding florets, but all I got in return was a pretty view. And I wasn’t even that only one who got to enjoy the view! Busybody bees, leering ladybugs, and crooning crickets all got to bask in those same buds, frolicking around in the petals and suckling all of their nectar. Even I couldn’t do that, the very caretaker of the blossoms! It was irritating, to say the least, so I let that godforsaken garden fall into disrepair, and I was happier. I am happier. The loud ding of the kitchen timer broke me out of my thoughts—the casserole was done! Quickly, I rushed the rest of the way to the kitchen, pulling open the stainless steel door to the oven and grabbing the casserole dish for only a moment before I dropped it and let out a strangled scream. Oven mitts, oven mitts, oven mitts! I forgot the oven mitts. My fingertips burned a pale yellow, oozing and blistering and glowing an ugly red around the edges. With my elbows, I turned on the tap and let cool water run over my fingertips.
The door squeaked open; I knew Michael was finally home. “Michael! Michael! Get the gauze!” “Darling, what’s the rush? I’m not even halfway in the door yet. Give a man a second to breathe.” He let out a breathy laugh. I hated that laugh. “I said get the damn gauze! I touched a hot dish by accident!” Within moments he was on his feet, climbing his way up the stairs to our tiny medicine cabinet at the end of the crooked upstairs hallway. A minute later, he was at my side, with gauze and antibiotic ointment in his hands and with disbelief painting his face a hideous shade of repulsion. I pulled my hands out of the water and he carefully applied the antibiotic, afterwards wrapping my fingertips in the white fabric. The casserole had splattered when it hit the floor—all that time and effort to waste. I heaved out a sigh. With a burned hand, a ruined dinner, and Michael home late again, tonight was better than any other to talk to him. It would be the perfect storm of an evening, and that gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction. “Babe, can you call that Chinese place down the street? You know what I want. During dinner, we’re going to talk.” Michael complied wordlessly, he knew speaking now would only provoke both of us, while I wandered my way to the living room. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation, but this time it would go down differently; I would make sure the truth came out. I heard the phone ringing from the other room. “One garden salad please… yes… one hot and sour soup…and could…” He droned on and on and I thought about what I could possibly say when he returned. I thought my mind would be racing but instead all I felt was a settling calm. I knew the truth; he didn't know what I knew. Michael walked into the room in the brisk and confident manner that existed only from having done something a countless number of times before. Before I could get a word out, he started speaking. “Okay, look, Junebug, I know what you’re going to say, and for the last time, I am not cheating!” His voice rose at the end, but I wouldn’t be caught off guard. “I know my late nights are suspicious but I can have my supervisor send you my work hours if you want! The rest of it I’m sure you’re just imagining! If I’ve ever come home smelling unfamiliar, it was probably because of a patient at the hospital! And my hair is always messy, you’ve said that’s one of the things you love about it!” He paused and took a breath, calming himself down. Softer this time, he started, “I just don’t know why you’re so paranoid.” He paused again, this time even more hesitant to speak. I didn’t dare breathe. “Look, Juney, I don’t want to accuse you of anything…” My heart stopped—he knew. I would much rather call it a distraction than an affair, but I suppose whatever I call it doesn’t change what it is. The next words I speak recklessly tumble out of my mouth.
“I’m not just your Junebug.”
To round out this year of creative writing, here's one last short story!
Junebug
Unfamiliar perfume on his collar, disheveled hair when he walked in the door, even on days when it wasn’t windy, late nights in the ward; I knew the symptoms, the signs. I’d even venture to say they were far too familiar for such a picket-fence, house-in-the-suburbs type of couple like ourselves. Sometimes I wondered if I was the cause of some of them; I knew I was a failure of a housewife.
But I didn’t dwell on that thought too long; my phone chimed with a text, and it was well-enough for a distraction. I typed out a response, the name of my recipient had fallen from my lips far too many times, but I didn’t dwell on that either. Michael would be home soon, a lovely casserole was waiting in the oven for both of us, and it was almost ready.
I plodded over to the kitchen, admiring the array of photos lining the walls on my way there. Michael was a brilliant businessman with a penchant for photography. Artistic close-ups of grass, trees, and the flower garden I kept out back adorned the slabs of baby blue. That flower garden used to be my pride and joy. With vivid yellow tulips, deep indigo petunias, and blood red hibiscuses, I would spend hours and hours weeding, watering, and worshiping that garden. Protecting it from pesky beetles, mangy deer, and sneaky weeds was the sole purpose of my days, other than tending to Michael of course. But then I started getting more distracted, I let myself get distracted, when I realized that I was putting all of this work in for nothing. I could devote my life to those budding florets, but all I got in return was a pretty view. And I wasn’t even that only one who got to enjoy the view! Busybody bees, leering ladybugs, and crooning crickets all got to bask in those same buds, frolicking around in the petals and suckling all of their nectar. Even I couldn’t do that, the very caretaker of the blossoms! It was irritating, to say the least, so I let that godforsaken garden fall into disrepair, and I was happier. I am happier. The loud ding of the kitchen timer broke me out of my thoughts—the casserole was done! Quickly, I rushed the rest of the way to the kitchen, pulling open the stainless steel door to the oven and grabbing the casserole dish for only a moment before I dropped it and let out a strangled scream. Oven mitts, oven mitts, oven mitts! I forgot the oven mitts. My fingertips burned a pale yellow, oozing and blistering and glowing an ugly red around the edges. With my elbows, I turned on the tap and let cool water run over my fingertips.
The door squeaked open; I knew Michael was finally home. “Michael! Michael! Get the gauze!” “Darling, what’s the rush? I’m not even halfway in the door yet. Give a man a second to breathe.” He let out a breathy laugh. I hated that laugh. “I said get the damn gauze! I touched a hot dish by accident!” Within moments he was on his feet, climbing his way up the stairs to our tiny medicine cabinet at the end of the crooked upstairs hallway. A minute later, he was at my side, with gauze and antibiotic ointment in his hands and with disbelief painting his face a hideous shade of repulsion. I pulled my hands out of the water and he carefully applied the antibiotic, afterwards wrapping my fingertips in the white fabric. The casserole had splattered when it hit the floor—all that time and effort to waste. I heaved out a sigh. With a burned hand, a ruined dinner, and Michael home late again, tonight was better than any other to talk to him. It would be the perfect storm of an evening, and that gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction. “Babe, can you call that Chinese place down the street? You know what I want. During dinner, we’re going to talk.” Michael complied wordlessly, he knew speaking now would only provoke both of us, while I wandered my way to the living room. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation, but this time it would go down differently; I would make sure the truth came out. I heard the phone ringing from the other room. “One garden salad please… yes… one hot and sour soup…and could…” He droned on and on and I thought about what I could possibly say when he returned. I thought my mind would be racing but instead all I felt was a settling calm. I knew the truth; he didn't know what I knew. Michael walked into the room in the brisk and confident manner that existed only from having done something a countless number of times before. Before I could get a word out, he started speaking. “Okay, look, Junebug, I know what you’re going to say, and for the last time, I am not cheating!” His voice rose at the end, but I wouldn’t be caught off guard. “I know my late nights are suspicious but I can have my supervisor send you my work hours if you want! The rest of it I’m sure you’re just imagining! If I’ve ever come home smelling unfamiliar, it was probably because of a patient at the hospital! And my hair is always messy, you’ve said that’s one of the things you love about it!” He paused and took a breath, calming himself down. Softer this time, he started, “I just don’t know why you’re so paranoid.” He paused again, this time even more hesitant to speak. I didn’t dare breathe. “Look, Juney, I don’t want to accuse you of anything…” My heart stopped—he knew. I would much rather call it a distraction than an affair, but I suppose whatever I call it doesn’t change what it is. The next words I speak recklessly tumble out of my mouth.
“I’m not just your Junebug.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Neglected Garden
This was incredible! Amazing job I was hooked the whole time!!
ReplyDeleteI did not expect that twist at the end either wow!
DeleteKAVYA this is so good!
ReplyDeleteThis was fantastic, Kavya, and also amazing to write about something you haven't experience, like marriage, and do it so well and in a captivating way. Please keep writing - you're amazing!
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad this is an accurate picture of a (failing) marriage! Obviously, I am not, nor have I ever been, married, so depicting that type of relationship realistically was a bit of a struggle.
Delete