Dream from a Mundane World

You are laying the table for dinner as your husband walks in the door.  He smiles and greets you, and you kiss him on the cheek.  It is Thursday, the working week is nearly over, and you have made him shepherd's pie, his favourite.
	Over dinner you talk together, in the usual way.  You ask about his day in the office, he asks about your day at home.  You compare thoughts on the latest happenings in the world, and what is on television tonight.  Then the words run out and the meal is finished in comfortable, reflective silence.
	As he is helping you clear the table, your husband speaks, thoughtfully.
	"Some days, my job just doesn't feel right.  It's like... I don't know.  I've never done a day of real man's work in my life."
	This is unexpected, a break from the routine.  For a few moments, you cannot think of anything to say.  With an effort, you make some light comment, and both of you chuckle briefly before finishing the task in silence.  Your husband walks into the living room to watch the news, to which you listen while washing up, as you do every night.  But tonight you cannot concentrate on the rising taxes or the war in some small and far off country.  Your husband's words echo in your mind, troubling you for reasons you cannot understand.
	The doorbell rings, another upset.  You poke your head out of the kitchen and look to your husband, but he seems equally surprised, frowning as he stands and heads for the front door.  Filled with an inexplicable sense of foreboding, you pull off your rubber gloves and follow him.
	Your worry was unnecessary - the man at the door is a friend, someone to be welcomed into your home.  You have never seen him before in your life.  He radiates charisma, feeling somehow more real than anyone or anything you have encountered before.
	In the living room, the television off now, your husband brings out red wine, pours three glasses.  Your visitor proposes a toast to something that seems singularly appropriate.  The wineglasses being raised have huge cracks in them; you cannot remember noticing these before.  They look ready to shatter at any moment.
	Now the man is talking.  He speaks at length, eloquently, the words spilling over your head like warm water, comforting.  In half an hour from now, you and your husband will both be killed.  It does not matter what you do; there is no way to escape this destiny.  There is a reason for it, a very sensible, enlightening reason.  There is no question that it is the right thing to do.  You fully understand that this is the way it must be.
	After the man leaves, you simply stand.  Slowly, like a ray of light piercing a blanket of cloud, it dawns on you that you are terrified.  The realisation opens the floodgates on the fear, pouring its icy lead into your stomach.  In half an hour you will be dead, and there is nothing you can do about it, but that is not what you are afraid of, although you feel that it should be.  No, your fear is of something else, something you cannot put a name to, and that inability is somehow part of with the fear as well.  You want to run, to hide, to cry in huge, choking sobs that might, possibly, be enough to expel this terror before it tears you apart.
	Instead you continue to stand there, motionless, paralysed.  Your husband is doing the same.  At last he breaks the tableau, walking past you without a word or even a glance, face completely calm.  You hear the back door open and then clatter closed.  You know that your face must look as peaceful as your husband's, although your mind is screaming.
	From out the back comes an unfamiliar sound, a slow, rhythmic thumping.  What is he doing?  It is curiosity that finally gets you moving; as if, drowning in an emotion deeper and rougher than it has ever experienced, your consciousness gratefully seeks the flimsy refuge of anything familiar.  You walk through the back door and on to the verandah, look down into the garden.
	Your husband is chopping wood.  Where the wood came from, or the axe for that matter, you do not know.  When you ask him what he is doing, your voice is steady and utterly natural.  He replies with satisfaction, "Man's work."
	Moving on automatic, you have walked back into the house and through to the kitchen before you understand, before the fear finally names itself.  You have half an hour to live.  Outside, your husband is spending his last minutes doing what he has always wanted to do.  Breaking the routine.  Your life, like his, has always been comfortably habitual - surely, at some time, you have wanted more than this?  And yet, with just half an hour left, you cannot think of a single unattained goal, a single purpose to keep your life going.  A single reason not to die right now.
	Your mind blank, you wash dishes and wait for death.

(c) Copyright Hespa.
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