A White Dress and a Red Apron

She woke up the morning she put on the white dress and the red apron knowing that she would poison the Baked Alaska.

On that day, we were about four feet high, but we’d be five or six feet by the end of the year.

That’s if you believe the scientists, and, really, why wouldn’t you believe the scientists? They’ve been right about so much so far. But, you know, you hear people talking, and those people, the ones talking, they sometimes don’t believe the science, even though they are, at this point, and we mean this literally, knee-deep in the science.

The science being us.

The science being the water.

She put on a red apron, and a white dress beneath it, and we noticed that it was another silent protest against her husband who recruited her into this new lifestyle. The problem with silent protests, whether they be white dresses or undercooking the steak you make for dinner, is that her husband is oblivious, not because that’s his normal nature, but because it’s become part of his core belief system.

Poison is passive, but active at the same time. We’re familiar with poison, but not friendly. It’s not difficult to poison us, but it doesn’t destroy us. We find a way to co-exist with the poison, but nothing living in or around us is ever that lucky.

When we reached one foot and every floor in America became ocean, her husband was one of the men who decided that the key to living a happy life, in spite of places like Dayton going the way of Venice, was to not only ignore the problem, but ignore as much as humanly possible.

Since Ignorance doesn’t sound like an appetizing religion, the solution was to call it Nostalgia with a capital “N” and not just recall allegedly-better times, but to regress back to them in whatever way possible.

That’s how entire households, like hers, were redesigned to resemble residences like the ones you’d see on 1950’s television. Couches and chairs were covered in plastic. Conventional approaches to complex issues like gender and race were re-adopted. Treehouses were built and sadly, many people died attempting to build treehouses, unaware of how tricky they are to construct with limbs being flimsier than ever due to infestation from mutated termites.

A week after they were married, he asked her if she would ever consider converting from atheism to Nostalgia, and it struck her funny, the idea that you could go from atheism to something else, as atheism had always seemed like the end of the road for her. She began as a Catholic, dabbled in Buddhism, and then arrived at “It’s all bullshit” in her late-twenties and never looked back.

On their first date, she explained everything to him as far as personality, proclivities, and progressive ideals. He listened with a half-smile on his face, while he forked through his linguini and red sauce, and mercifully never put on his tele-glasses with one of those pitiful excuses about wanting to check on the status of the three or four hurricanes that were perpetually striking different parts of the country. Most of the time, once tele-glasses were on, the person was watching pornography and the date was over.

She didn’t find him irresistible, but taxes on single women kept rising, and fiscally, she needed to marry soon if she didn’t want to be forced to move back in with her mother.

The suggestion of trying out a new religion that sounded like a cult wasn’t to her liking, but like most people who get themselves into a life-altering mess, she assumed that if it became a problem she would notice before it got too far and put a stop to it.

That was eleven years ago.

He took to Nostalgia the same way forty-six percent of the country did--with an enthusiasm that arrived at devotion faster than anyone could have anticipated. Unfortunately for those on the opposing side, the speed of the movement was imperceptible on a personal level until people were doubled over with nausea at something that felt like a gravitational shift that had happened while they were sure it wouldn’t. More than one poor soul lost the contents of their stomachs in us, and while cleaning up vomit was never pleasant exercise, try doing it while the upchuck floats away from you as you realize the entire first floor of your house has now begun a potential toilet. Some just said “To hell with it” and carried on with their day. Something is only there if you acknowledge it seemed to be the main tenet when really it was all about acknowledging everything other than what you should be acknowledging. If pressed, as many of the Nostalgia pundits were when they’d appear on the Five-Minute News at five, as to whether they really didn’t notice us rising up all around them, they’d admit that they did, but that they chose not to worry about it. Then they’d mention the lovely meatloaf their wife was preparing at home, and you could see how they were able to turn that forty-six percent of the country into seventy-three percent before too long. It all just seemed so...pleasant.

As we were making our way in rivulets through front yards and into carpets and onto hardwood, millions were quietly buying bright yellow galoshes, unwilling to admit that they were needed to traverse the new aquatic landscape. Any and all steps taken to prevent spaces and bodies from remaining eternally soaked were acceptable, but not discussed openly.

She woke up the morning she was going to watch her husband die at the dining room table and she felt that giving him some kind of warning was important. That’s why the white dress was retrieved from the back of the closet, beyond the hat boxes and the remnants from her past life--stilettos and sex toys. He doesn’t know that she’s held onto so much, but not knowing is what he’s best at these days.

Would he have wanted to know that she didn’t hate him?

She suspected he believed she hated him, when really, she found him unbearably attractive--much more so than when they first met. Something about his newly repugnant nature was a turn-on for her, because she knew that making love wouldn’t result in love, and that was her modern hang-up before modernity turned into conformity.

Her galoshes kicked their way through us as she made her way to the cupboards to begin the process of putting together the deadly dish. She put it on one of the good plates that they never used. Another hint to him that he should be concerned. It landed on her as she was fetching the sugar that what she was about to do might not have anything to do with him, but with trying to get through to him. The way they say suicidal people don’t actually want to commit suicide, but want help to not commit suicide, perhaps some homicides are the same way.

I don’t want to kill you, but I need help from you in order to stop myself from killing you.

When he arrived home, we had risen a bit, and as the front door opened, we slid out and around him, reaching the spot above his black galoshes and soaking that section of his pants. Because we’re not clean water, he knew he’d have to throw out the pants. Washing would do no good, because the bacteria swimming around in us has been proven to be resistant to just about any high temperature or bleaching.

As he was upstairs changing, she set the Baked Alaska down on the table with no explanation whatsoever. She hopped up on the counter and sat in the most unladylike way she could imagine, legs splayed, grabbed a cigarette and lighter from the drawer where she hid them behind the oven mitts. Lighting up, she wondered if the mere sight of her like this would give him a heart attack. She imagined the splash as his body fell back into us, and she dreamt of our current pulling him away from her. A body to the nearest body. Down the street. Out, out, out to a place where you can’t see land or any hope of land. In her living dream, he appears at peace, because death is when you know everything and nothing, and that seems like all he’s ever wanted.

A smaller splash than the one she was hoping for indicates that he’s come downstairs and made her way to the kitchen. A second later, he’s in the doorway staring at her.

We sloshed from wall to wall, creating small waves that are made of chaos but cannot create anything that upsetting. Just confusing. Confusion is a house like something out of I Love Lucy where anything that won’t sink has to be placed on high shelves. Confusion is a news report confirming that, yes, thousands of people die each year from electrocution even with every precaution in place to prevent it. Confusion is the look your husband gives you when he sees that the costume is still on, but the performance is over.

Though it should be heavy enough to stay put, his chair lifted up a bit as he pulled it out and sat down on it. We couldn’t carry him away, but we wouldn’t have even if it were possible. He was where he wanted to be, and she let drop cigarette ash drop down into us where it went from smoldering to extinguished instantly.

That’s the relationship we have to fire.

So much of our relationships are about the destruction of our touch.

He picked up his spoon, dipped it into the Baked Alaska, and held it an inch from his mouth.

Outside, a cloud that seemed serene was split by lighting.

It didn’t matter that the last thing anyone needed was rain.