Michael Geisser

BOTTLES

For twelve months, she hadn’t gone near or looked toward his study as she moved about the house.  This night, she sat alone in the living room, facing what used to be his private refuge, eyes averted to a photo on the mantle, their vacation house in Maine, the place he had named ‘Utopia.’  She took a deep draw of her wine, turned her wedding ring around and around on her finger—she was thinner now.  She turned her eyes to his study door, finished a second glass of wine, thought she heard him call her name.  

She tapped on the door and entered his study; saw the wall covered with his books in riotous disorder, the window above his desk that looked over her faded garden, his collection of golf balls on a wall rack—one for each course that they had played together.  She heard him unwrap a peppermint and pop it into his mouth to hide his tobacco breath from her, a ritual of his that she loved.  She thought it was the sweetest of his many kind habits.  “I hope you don’t mind my coming in,” she said, savoring the peppermint aroma.

She picked up a tiny, unopened bottle of hot pepper sauce on his desktop, careful not to move the three scallop shells that touched it.  She was warmed that he still had this bottle, remembered when he took it from her meal tray when they were flying to Vera Cruz on their honeymoon, put it into his pocket without saying anything.  She said, “You were always so good at keeping such little things . . . I wasn’t.”  As she turned the bottle over in her hand, the brick-red liquid sloshing back and forth, she remembered how he had introduced her to the searing spices of Mexico and Thailand during the first years of their marriage, how she had accidently added a big scoop of super-hot Scotch Bonnet pepper powder to their stew one night, thinking it was mild cayenne pepper, how she had had to throw out the meal, pan and all.  She remembered how she had expected him to yell at her.  How he had laughed and kissed her.  She thought, I would’ve yelled at him if he had done that.

She looked up at the walls around her.  “I’m still surprised that you painted this room forest green; you are so partial to blue.”  She placed the bottle of hot sauce down in the exact same spot—where the dust was missing—turned it to face the identical direction as before.   The rap against the walnut desktop triggered a memory of how whenever she knew he was at his desk, she wanted to come in and kiss him, take in his scent when he hugged her . . . But she had always known better than to disturb him.

Her hand grazed a small, antique bottle, almost tipping it off his desk.  “Oh my god,” she said as she saved the bottle.  “Sorry.”  She recognized the bottle; he had told her that it had once held the medicine of a quack.   “When did you stick the blue jay’s tail feather into it?” she said.

“One night when you were calling out for me,” she heard him say.

She felt his hands settle on her hips from behind as she noticed the long, round bottle of black sand lying on its side on the windowsill.  Oh, how sweet, she thought.  He still has that bottle of sand from Maui.  She remembered when they were making love under the palm trees by the ocean, and hid from a couple strolling by, the man saying to his date that the stars reflecting off the water looked ‘like herring running.’  How after they’d disappeared, he’d slid back on top of her, breathed into her ear, “Your herring is diving back into his house now.”  How she said, “Welcome home, herring.” How they laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe.

The bottle rolled off the sill. She watched it fall for eons, saw her hands save it over and over, a thousand times over.  She said, “Sorry,” each time.  It struck the maple floor, shattered, shot black sand mixed with glass shards everywhere.