The Floorboards Have Been Nibbled Away by Christine Robertson

It’s just the two of us, but the house still smells like Thanksgiving. 

“Hard to believe we’ve been here two years,” you say. 

You knead my fluffy-socked toes, Auld Lang Syne crackling through the soundbar. 

“Went by so fast,” you add. 

“It did,” I say.

“Do you ever miss Laurel?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“What do you miss?”

I twist the blanket with my hands. “Oh, I don’t know...” 

You turn from the TV. “Well, if you miss it, you must know why.”

I shrug. “Just the little things.”

“Hmph,” you sound, turning toward the black and white credits rolling up the screen.

I tug the blanket over my chest. Blow on my hot chocolate, poke my tongue through its marshmallow hat. 

Laurel? With its squishy hardwood floors and single-pane windows, that let in every orgasm, and television show, and neighborhood fight? Ice box, thick with peeling paint, where we stacked ceramic bowls because there was never enough room. Laurel, with its too-small balcony where the doves perched, cooing all day. Squirrels running up and down branches of the Sycamore, bristling against its eaves. Laurel, with its afternoon summers, casting fingers of light, warming the walls creamy white, almost rose. Its Bougainvillea shadows chattering in the wind. Laurel, with its ocean breeze, rustling the peach hair on our skin, windchimes chirping with bird song, beyond the balcony door. Laurel, with its falling suns and cotton candy clouds painting the rooftops in purple and pink. Snowball’s steps, still whispering, in its walls.

“What about you?” I ask. 

The TV flickers across your face. I hold my breath against its blue light.

“Not really,” you say, after too long. “This place is much better.”

I rhythm my exhale as you stand, switching off the T.V. 

“I mean… what an upgrade. There’s really no comparison. It’s everything we ever wanted.” 

In the kitchen, dishes steam. Veined countertops glisten. Our spoons mix magnesium glycinate, our new bedtime routine. 

“Ahhhh,” you sigh, gulping down the last bit. 

You kiss my cheek and flick the overhead light—our black outlines reflected in the window. Where did you go, the shadows seem to ask.

But neither of us says a thing.

We clink our glasses on the cold marble, sweep our feet across the white oak floor, and march toward our oversized bed in the dark.

Christine lives in Los Angeles. Her recent work has been featured in Bright Flash Literary Review, Club Plum, Eunoia Review, and The Sun’s Readers Write. She holds a BA in English and French from UCLA and has studied creative writing as part of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. She can be found online at christinerobertson.com.