Three-Fourths of an Ounce
by Victor B. Monchego, Jr.
The bed felt like a fever dream. It was my bed now, not ours, and in a week or two I would burn it. I kicked away the fort of pillows. I had to bury Stephanie. She wouldn't keep in the car trunk forever.
I washed my face. When I blew my nose and it started to bleed. I stuffed in a plug of tissue. I made Nescafe and I wore yesterday's clothes.
The wheelbarrow was strapped on the Caprice's roof. Stephanie was in the trunk. The gas tank was full.
The day was gray and damp. The windshield was filthy and I was out of washing fluid. My nose kept bleeding and I tossed bloody plugs on the floor.
I drove to Townsend and then up the No. 5 logging road. Stephanie liked this area. She hunted morels up here.
I parked. The tourists were gone. I heard crows but could not spot them. At last, my nose stopped bleeding. I unstrapped the wheelbarrow. I took Stephanie out of the trunk. The dead are heavy. They are supposed to be lighter without their souls.
The plan was to take Stephanie deep into the forest, far from the road. We hiked here last summer.
On a bed of needles, I set Stephanie in a light shaft. Stephanie liked mountains but I prefer the beach. It was time. I kissed her cheek.
Damn, I forgot to bring a shovel.