EMILE
MICRO STORY
“Bye Daddy,” chirped Emily as she pressed her lips against the glass for a kiss.
“Off to school?”
“Of course. It’s morning.”
It certainly was, thought Emile as his daughter’s sing-song voice disappeared down the stairs. Then, a shift in water temperature told Emile that Eden must be showering in the downstairs bathroom.
“Running late again,” sighed Emile.
In squeaks and scuffles he began his stretches. You have to stay limber, Emile would often caution. In truth, it didn’t really matter to Emile. He hadn’t left the shower stall in over two years and wasn’t sure he would anytime soon. Their water bill had soared but Eden understood. At least, that’s what she told Emile. Luckily his singing was so much better in here that his career in jingles had also soared.
Of course, installing the recording equipment had been costly, but his new contracts more than covered it. He was, as you would imagine, a curiosity, but that too was quickly diffused with some well-placed, vinyl, contact paper. The paisley pattern even complemented the Italian tile Eden had chosen all those years ago. Back then Emily didn’t exist and Emile was a much drier man with a much less impressive voice. At first Eden tried to sleep in the bathroom, to maintain connection. She assumed it would be temporary and while occasional soggy sheets were a price she was willing to pay, she did not expect Emile to never again emerge from the glass and metal enclosure.
“Maybe it’s me,” she thought. “Maybe he comes out when I go to work, when no one is home. When I’m not home.”
Emile assured her that was not the case. Even so, she couldn’t help checking for damp footprints in the evening. She had long stopped hearing the constant sound of running water, but there were still certain areas of Home Depot she couldn’t bring herself to walk down. The kitchen faucet would continue to drip, and that old, cracked garden hose would not be replaced anytime soon – but Eden didn’t care. She just wanted her husband back.
Emily was less concerned. She even laughed when the kids at school called him fish-dad. “Wet hugs were the best hugs,” he would say – but she didn’t really believe that. All
she knew was that her father loved her and really, that’s all that mattered.
As Eden pulled from the driveway, the first notes of the “Best Bubbles” jingle caught her ear. “Dammit,” she whispered into her chest and turned the car toward the bright morning sun.