Treasures in the Balance

One day he returned home to find the front door unlocked and a woman dangling from a chandelier. It was the oddest sight he had ever witnessed, at least since he had seen his French teacher urinating under a tree during a nighttime field trip.

The woman was petite, and the chandelier was quite grand compared to the usual light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. It almost seemed as if she were an ornament deliberately affixed to the chandelier. But as she looked at him with fear in her eyes, his logical side kicked in. The woman must have come from somewhere and had a reason to be there.

He walked over to the large window, the one he had insisted on enlarging a few years back when his wife had sunk into depression. He had hoped that by allowing more sunlight into their home, it would somehow lift her spirits. As he peered outside, his gaze fell on their car, which he had purchased around the same time. It had been broken down and sitting idle in their parking spot for several weeks now. It seemed as if bad things happened all at once, he mused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that he had faced worse challenges in his life.

Vivid memories of the day they decided to separate came flooding back. Their inability to have children had created a chasm between them, and the anguish had been unbearable. The morning after their decision, he had awakened feeling as though he had been cast into the depths of hell.

But through all of life's trials and tribulations, he had persevered. As he stood by the window, bathed in sunlight, he resolved to face whatever challenges lay ahead, just as he had done in the past.

Trying to ease the tension, he offered her a chair, hoping she would come down and explain her presence. In her eyes, he saw a unique kind of madness – unlike anything he had encountered during his job as a sales agent for innovative trash cans. It was a fresh, unexplored insanity finding its place in the world.

He studied her wide black eyes, the sparse gray hair on her head, and her ankles. Her broad hips seemed to challenge the equilibrium between her and the chandelier, threatening to send them both crashing to the ground. Instead of questioning her, he decided to physically pull her down, taking control of the situation before it spiraled further.

As soon as he grabbed her hips, she kicked him like a spooked, hungry horse that had been poked with a stick. Her reaction was instant, driven by the same impulse that makes animals respond swiftly and decisively to survive. In anguish, he collapsed on the floor and struggled to catch his breath.

Eventually, he managed to stand and moved to the far end of the room. The woman, now hanging like a ghost, smacked her lips, her arms drooping as if dead. Empathy washed over him, but it was not for her. It was for himself – for his life without a safe haven or moments of respite from his job selling shiny, plastic-wrapped garbage cans.

He wondered if he could recall the things that brought him joy. Sitting on the floor, he counted them: a hearty lentil soup, tending to his garden, repairing computer parts, writing simple poems, caressing flower petals, painting the house's exterior, changing door locks, doing push-ups, and gazing into the mirror.

To distract himself, he chose the first item on his list – lentil soup. In the kitchen, he mixed green and orange lentils with water and a soup mix. As the aroma filled the air and the flavors satisfied his taste buds, a newfound sense of contentment enveloped him.

After finishing his meal, he looked up at the woman, who appeared different each time he glanced her way. This time, her ears caught his attention.

"So who are you?" he asked.

"Naomi," she replied, her voice raspy but clear.

"Which Naomi?" he inquired.

"Your wife," she said.

He nodded, then asked, "What are you doing on the chandelier?"

"Our life down there is over. I needed something new," she responded.

"So you're not coming down?" he asked.

"No," she replied.

"Naomi, my wife?" he confirmed.

"Naomi, your wife," she agreed.

With that settled, he turned to his work area. Though a garbage can agent by trade, he wrote poems to escape the lingering scent of plastic. He opened his self-assembled computer and began to write:

A man and a woman met by fate,

His hair was sparse, a balding state,

They spoke of love as daylight waned,

Night had fallen, yet there they remained.

When he finished writing his new poem, he was mostly excited by his ability to write verses that did not overburden the mind. From his desk, his eyes caught sight of her partly exposed breasts, as she lay on her side, her clothes caught on the chandelier's ornamentation. He blushed, coughed, and marveled for a moment before recomposing himself.

Not wanting to forget his purpose, he asked if she wanted to hear the poem he had written. She weakly responded, and he began to recite the lines. He asked for her opinion, and she praised the poem for evoking love, excitement, and an eternal feeling. He recalled knowing a woman who described love with just a few words. It was quite possible that this woman was his wife, Naomi. Now everything started to connect.

He read the poem once more, and she clapped with her feet in delight. For a moment, it seemed that something good was happening in the house with the chandelier and the woman, not particularly beautiful but kind-hearted and intelligent, who was married to him and had glorious balance capabilities.

His breath caught again, this time for the right reason. Together, they experienced the impossible combination of two strangers who became partners for life. He finally felt good.

Entering the bedroom, he found a large bed, a lit table lamp, a book of poems he hadn't written, and about a dozen pictures of couples arranged on the edge of the mirror. He recognized his face in the pictures.

As exhaustion was about to guide him into the realm of dreams, he contemplated the woman still dangling from the chandelier in the living room. He questioned whether he had remembered or neglected to lock the front door, if he had used the new toothpaste or the old one, and if it held true that among all the possessions in his house, she remained the only thing he could deem “my treasure.”