The Night Comeith

Javiel sat on the bed as his mistress dressed. The sheets were rumpled and creased as if after a twilight storm. Its frame creaked and groaned as he stood up from the stiff spring mattress. He walked to the corner where his wife’s clothing lay intermingled with his own and pulled a stained undershirt over his middle-aged body. It fell loosely on his chest accenting the muscles, that had long left him. His mistress, having finished primping in the antique mirror, walked to door and left with a sharp thud. He stood still for a moment, contemplating her silent tirade, before picking up a wrinkled shirt from an old chair.

He buttoned his worn, khaki pants and descended the smooth black staircase into a small kitchen. On the stove a cast iron pan sat quietly boiling. The red liquid bubbled and churned as the heat of the flame touched its delicate surface. He picked up a piece of day old French bread and gnawed on the hard crust, eager to get to the soft goodness within. His wife came in holding a paper bag.

“I forgot the butter.”

He nodded quietly as his wife continued to talk, her plump body moving adeptly around the tiny space.

“I met the most peculiar woman on the front walk.” She paused to reach into the ice box and retrieve a freshly killed chicken. “She said she was applying for the maid position.”

Her eyes looked at him with a questioning stare, before returning their gaze to the sauce now bubbling furiously in its shallow dish. Javiel stopped chewing and looked at his wife with the utmost concentration.

“You didn’t tell me we were hiring a maid.”