Open Mouth
— Short Fiction —
Mabel cried in the provincial airport in Puno. She thought the mountain air might be just the thing, but it felt almost worse than the swampy air of the Everglades or even the scorching pain of the Saharan air she had already tried. Despite her best efforts, her lungs cried out for more and more and more. They were insatiable.
She first noticed that her lungs would not fill up all the way at work. At first she thought it was the drone of a PTA meeting that set her off yawning. Everyone was doing it. It was contagious. And then it was happening all the time — it was as though her lungs suddenly took up her whole abdomen and her mouth was helpless to fill this new kind of void.
Mabel went to the doctor and blew in the gadget that measured the strength of her breath. She was not confident she could even make the little ping pong ball hover, but one sigh and it shot to the top. See? The doctor said. Perfectly healthy. Very robust. He did not hear her when she protested which confirmed the fear that her body could not support her voice.
When she said he didn’t have to stay if he didn’t want to, he slid his arm out from under her neck and went. Just like that. Like he had been waiting for the command all along. And maybe he had. From the cavern of their down comforter she watched him collect the things that were his — the…
