THE HUNGER

FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG

Lights out. He feels for the keys in his pocket and shuts the door behind him. He's done for the day; Roy runs towards the house. Jumping here and there, puddles pooling everywhere across the parking lot. It has been like this since early morning. They said the storm is stalling. Stuck between high pressure. The nor'easter churning around and around. Pouring and pummeling rain and wind. Roads flooded. Tree limbs lost. 

He checks the truck doors along the way, pausing under the garage overhang to catch his breath. He's soaked. The gutters are overflowing. Overhead the heavy oak branches heave in the wind. They have been talking about the possibility of losing power. He bolts the last stretch to the house. 

Running up the back porch steps. The dog indoors starts barking with warning and excitement. He has been waiting a while. Anxiously eager for Roy to get home. Sitting and staring at the back door. 

Before going in, Roy grabs an armful of firewood from the porch pile, then opens the back door. A gust of wind grabs it out of his hand and with a burst the door slams against the wall.

And the howling bark of the dog and the strong smell of tomatoes stewing. Like a flood. It hits him: home. He kicks the door shut. 

Roy looks towards the kitchen and sees Bruce standing over the stock pot stirring. He drops the fire wood in the box next to the wood stove and says hi to the dog who is wagging and waiting with a mouth full of filthy dog toy. It never matters which or what toy. As long as it's in his mouth. Roy notices the rug covered with bits of bark from chewing on a hunk of wood. Evidence of pleasure and the traces of happiness. Roy wipes the wet hair from his forehead. A deep breath. 

Bruce has been cooking all day. Keeping busy. Chasing away panic attacks and the haunts that hunt him. Slowly simmering. Roy notices Bruce is quiet. 

In the kitchen, he puts his hands on Bruce's shoulders. He leans in to smell the back of Bruce's neck and the comfort of what is familiar. Then a kiss, Bruce's breath smelling like wine. Roy samples the sauce. I'm starving he says. He glances at the sink full of dirty dishes and kisses the back of Bruce's head.

Today's mail is on the table. Next to a lost flip flop the dog found and chewed. 

Roy asks if the dishwasher is clean. Yes. He grabs a glass and pours himself some wine. Licks the drips from the neck of the bottle. Then a big gulp after a long day and the neighbor's flooded basement. 

He sits at the table and his body decompresses. He looks at the flip flop and then the dog. Then he takes off his boots, one by one. He's tired. He gently tucks in the long laces then gets up and places them near the wood stove to dry. The dog watches his every move. Wet socks leave marks across the wood floor. 

At the basement door, Roy strips off his clothes. Soaked jeans and damp flannel drop. Wool socks and baggy briefs slide off. He kicks everything down the stairs. Tired. Laundry later. 

He stands there for a moment. Thinking. Remembering. There's a quiet peace that hangs in the house tonight. The smell of supper, rain against the windows, the day’s end.

Bruce watches the long view of Roy's unencumbered body standing still. The strength of shadows. The faded tired tattoo. What he knows and what he doesn't. 

Roy turns to check the time on the microwave. Then heads up to take a shower. Halfway up the stairs, Bruce yells, What kind of pasta. Roy yells back Angel hair. A moment later Bruce hears the rush of water in the tub in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Then the shower curtain shut. He sets the table. Just forks and bowls tonight. 

Back at the stove, Bruce stirs. He hears the shower shut off. 

Then the dog coming up the basement stairs. Slowly in a scandal. He's got one of Roy's wet wool socks in his mouth. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he heads to the dog bed next to the wood stove. He doesn't chew or ruin them. They just get stolen and hidden. Then lost and forgotten. 

Outside the wind picks up and a gust thrusts the rain against the house. The rain like hail against the windows. Bruce looks out and watches the trees swing and sway in the wild wind. The lights flicker and dim for a second. 

Bruce stirs once more. Covers the pot and sets the flame to low. There's a certain solace in sauce. Like security in socks. And coming home.