BY LESLIE WALKER TRAHAN
My husband did not come back for several weeks, and when he returned, he said he didn’t know me. He was dressed in a suit, one I’d never seen before, and when I opened the door, he asked for himself. I told him my husband wasn’t there and invited him inside. I did not know what he was up to, but I had long ago learned that the only way to win one of my husband’s games was to outlast him at it.
We had fought the day he left—I had called him the king of an airless kingdom, and he had called me the vacuum, the thing that made him choke. That night I’d dreamed that the city was filled with men who looked like him, men who smiled and kissed my hand as they said hello, but the kisses stung and out of their mouths darted sharp tongues.
Could I get him a sandwich while he waited, I asked. A glass of water perhaps?
What he wanted was a steak, he said, the finest available. So I went to the butcher and asked for the most expensive cut of meat. At the grocery store, I bought a bottle of red wine and a bag of the small golden potatoes he liked.
I cooked the steak until it was a grim shade of brown, and when I cut it open, it was red like a radish pulled straight from the earth. I pulled out a chair at the table and retrieved a porcelain plate from the cupboard. I tucked a silk napkin into his shirt and poured him a glass of wine, full to the brim.
My husband grinned at me across the table. His lips were red with wine. Flakes of pepper were stuck in his teeth. As he finished eating, there was a knock at the door. My husband didn’t seem surprised, although we never had visitors. When I opened the door, a man who looked exactly like him was standing on the other side. He was even wearing the same suit.
How interesting, I thought, so this is the kind of game we’re playing. I invited the other man in, and he sat at the dining room table next to my husband. The new man smiled and said he would take a steak, too, if I had another. I looked at my husband, but he said nothing. He poured the man a glass of wine and pulled a clean plate out of the cupboard.
I had no idea how my husband had pulled this off, but I wasn’t going to pause. Pausing would give him power. I decided to cook for this new man and to grin while doing it.
I went back to the butcher for another steak and back to the grocery store for another bag of potatoes and more wine. When I returned, a third man was at the table. What a fine game my husband has invented, I thought. I did not know where he had found two men who looked just like him, but I knew better than to ask questions. The two new men sat with their empty plates before them. They had finished the wine, so I smiled and refilled their glasses.
I cooked the second steak, and when I cut it open, it was redder than the first. A fine sheen of blood spread across the bottom of the pan. But the two new men didn’t care. They ate ravenously.
The fourth man had eyes that didn’t focus, and although he was dressed like the others, he was missing his shoes. The other three men became quiet in his presence. They gathered in the corner and whispered while the fourth man sat at the table and tucked a used napkin into his shirt.
It was late and the butcher was closed, but the grocery store sold ground beef by the pound. I drove slowly, in no hurry to return to whatever would be awaiting me at my home. I remembered the last nights I had spent with my husband—the way his open mouth quivered while he slept, the gurgling sounds he made when he was in the deepest state, like a pot of water just beginning to boil.
When I came back, the men were angry. The fourth man had rejected the wine and had instead consumed half a bottle of bourbon. The other men had used the rest of the napkins to tie the fourth man to a chair, and he had since passed out.
The men blamed me for the flare up. They said it was unfair that the fourth man had to wait so long for his food. They didn’t like what they had been forced to do to protect me, to protect my home. They shook their heads and looked down into their glasses, which were now filled with bourbon.
There was a low noise in the corner, and when I turned around, I saw the fifth man crouched on the floor. His chin was slick with drool and his fingernails darkened with dirt. The other men said nothing. They pulled another chair up to the table. They retrieved a clean plate from the cupboard and poured a fresh glass of bourbon.
I looked at the new man, and I looked at the other men, too. I could not tell who was my husband and who was not. All right, I said, you’ve had your fun and now the game is over. I called my husband by his name, but none of the men looked at me. They all sipped their bourbon. They all took their shoes off and rolled up their sleeves.
The game, it seemed, was not yet over. I could not force the men to give in, so I did the only thing I could think of—I kept playing. I cooked the meat I had purchased for the fourth man and served it to the fifth man, and I smiled the whole time. But when the fifth man was done, he pushed his plate away and shook his head. It wasn’t enough, the other men said. They were all getting hungry again.
The grocery store was closed, so I pulled all the food out of the pantry. The men ate through it quickly, and when they finished, they paced the room. What would I feed them now, they wanted to know. They had been through so much, they said, and they would need more to sustain them.
I told the men I was preparing a meal unlike anything they’d ever had before. I told them they had to wait, but the reward would be great. They grew excited. They loved surprises, they said. They promised to be patient, and I left them in the dining room.
I scavenged my home looking for items to destroy. I took a pair of scissors to my husband's clothes and a knife to the bed we had slept on. I put the pieces in a pot to boil. I cut the living room curtains into shreds and roasted them in the oven, flaked with wood shavings from our front door. I seasoned liberally.
When the feast was ready, I brought it out to the men. They were sitting at the table, each with a glass of bourbon. The fourth man was awake and had been released from his silk chains.
This looks delicious, the men said, but we’re not hungry anymore, our brains just caught up with our stomachs. They laughed and winked at each other.
You’ve been working so hard, they said, you deserve a break. Have you eaten? Sit, they said, we’ll serve you.
They pulled out a chair at the table and retrieved a porcelain plate from the cupboard. They put a silk napkin in my lap and poured me a glass of wine, full to the brim.
Leslie Walker Trahan’s stories have been featured in The Forge, New Delta Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly, among other publications. She lives in Austin, Texas. You can find her online at lesliewtrahan.com and on Twitter @lesliewtrahan.