The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

way or forget it. He needed to be uncovered in bed. He needed his freedom. If it weren’t for the earthquakes, he would sleep naked. When he did shower, they were very short. He wanted to be ready to leap and avoid. Earthquakes were like people in that way.   Socks were not necessarily necessary. If there had been a large quake that day, he would wear socks to bed. Quicker to get into his thick-soled shoes.

All of his wives had been from Indonesia because of the earthquakes. It was part of living in the Pacific Rim Ring of Fire. They would be used to earthquakes and he wouldn’t have to explain. He never knew much of what they said, nor cared, but they were obliging up to a point.  Still, after time, they would keep away from him. It was almost like there was an expiration date on his marriages: pass that date and things were gone.

The last wife was the worst. She resisted almost from the very beginning. He had made each of them sign a contract of duties. It was written in both languages. If there was a dispute, he would bring it out and point to the relevant passages. The third one would hiss at him but follow through on the agreement. She would then whisper in his ear, “I witch.” For the longest time, he thought she was saying, “I wish.” He thought she was fantasizing about someone else, which didn’t bother him at those moments. He was, too. It was only after she had left him, when he thought back about her, that he realized what she really had been saying. In the dim light of his bedroom and his memory, she did look like a witch.

He didn’t mind her leaving that much, though; she seemed to attract spiders. Not that he saw any creatures, just their webs. He could feel them at times on his neck, on his forehead, just slightly there to be brushed away. Sometimes, his whole face would be enveloped by the slight webbing, but then it would be brushed completely away. When she left, he had the place fumigated. He got a guarantee that the poison used would kill spiders. He got it in writing, but it hadn’t: he was still fighting over their failure. They said there were no spiders. But there had to be, there were still webs. More webs!

The next night, the feet fog returned but with a slight change. When he awoke, the sensation had increased from annoying to painful. The fine mesh had a sting to it. Nothing was there as he rubbed his feet with his hands. Then, he rubbed his face. He had sat up into a web.  He knew it. It made him quiver with disgust. Spider shit! It was bad. Spiders ate bugs. Spider shit was digested bugs: so much worse. The fumigation should have killed the bugs; the spiders that survived the poison should have starved to death by now. Another violation of the contract: a severe breach!

Of course, all of this was her fault. He was glad he had closed her bank account. He only set it up to get her to stop complaining and shut up. He had put it in her contract. Money for quiet. Now that she was gone, though, he was under no legal obligation to provide her those funds.

In his dream, his feet were covered with a liquid, more like a gel, heavier than suntan lotion. He never liked suntan lotion covering his skin, suffocating his pores. His reaching down as he slept caused him to wake up. His feet were ice. They were so cold despite having his socks on. He pulled them off in the dark and rubbed his feet violently. His rapid reaction caused him to fall out of bed. He stubbed his left big toe and his right thumb in the process. He was sweaty and cold and in pain. “Curse her! The witch!” Maybe those spiders were biting him, and their venom was causing all of this. He had to get the fumigation done again. He would use a different company and send the bill to those incompetents who failed the first time. “Curse them!” He would make duct tape bug traps and send the catch along with the bill.

Of course, the traps didn’t show anything. He was so stupid; he put them on the floor.  Spiders are up. He had to put the traps up there where they were. Of course, while placing the traps high, the sore thumb and toe caused him to fall. The traps in his hands stuck to his head and arms. Removing them removed hair, too: such pain she caused him! He made more traps and this time, carefully hung them from the ceiling. If they didn’t get the spiders, they certainly would get the webs.

Despite the cold, he hadn’t worn socks to bed.  He lay there in the partial dark and watched the duct tape traps twist in the air. None were of a consistent size. He had been in too much of a rush for that type of detail. He needed legal evidence, not art. The fumigation was scheduled for next week. He even wished for the dreaded spiders to appear.

He fell asleep dreaming of spiders up there in the air above him—wishful dreaming in a way. He dreamed of spiders descending. They were just above his face. They crawled over his feet. He jumped out of bed, wide awake. He stood in the bathtub. He ran hot water over his naked feet. He examined the water for crawlies. There were none.

He dried his feet and examined the traps with a flashlight.  He didn’t want to scare away the spiders with the overhead light. There were none. There wasn’t a trace of web or mesh, either. There were long, thick, black hairs, though: his wives’ hair, not his. His was thin, short, and very gray. It had been months, years, since they were here. There shouldn’t have been any of their hair left. Invisible existent spiders. Visible non-existent wife hair.

Contradictions. Too many contradictions.

He had told himself the best policy was out of sight, out of mind. Ex-wives were thus ex-ed out of sight and mind. Why anyone would still want to be friends? He didn’t want to be reminded of any