...the air was unnaturally still. No cars moved past their little house; it was that time of day when normally it would be the opposite. They could share a moment at supper, with the windows up for a change. The curtains barely moved.
The wife moved without a sound. She never did, thought her husband. He rubbed the back of his neck and produced flecks of small concrete. His callous hands rubbed against his shirt. He shifted from one leg to another, standing at the far end of the kitchen.
He asked her politely if she needed him - he was always looking for ways to be of help. She equally refused. She set out the dishes, the utensils, the food. It was all down without the need of anyone. It would have impeded the day.
They sat and did not look outside. The meal was capable. It was a chicken dish. There was rice pilaf. There was watered down grape juice.
The husband talked about the weather that week. For once he put a relish into the description that the wife found herself clinging to. She looked at him without pain, without admiration. She could sense the house around her - it was their life's work.
There was the grass that was mowed and pawned over. Corners where the dirt was swept bi-weekly. A corner of the attic where little rocks from Truckee were kept, not for any reason. There was fine china, just a single set, from their wedding. (Only an aunt from Trenton came to visit.)
She sighed. His voice was measured for a time, but stopped as if he couldn't figure out the next word.
A rumbling came in the distance. The house begin to shake. Outside the world was darkening. The two did not move from their seats.
They closed their eyes and the husband reached across the table for her hand and found it. The end came in a screech - no longer than a quarter of a breath. The articles of the house broke into their basic states. They were quickly no more.
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