Himself

by Jess Kidd

The man she marries will paint window frames and round up chickens, grow turnips and poison rats, fix plumbing and plaster walls.

When she thinks of Mahony stumbling around in overalls, broken by her nagging, hunched by duty, she could cry. He’d be a wild thing domesticated, his tomcattery shattered, his wicked grin the grimace of a yoked man.

she’s listening to the sound beyond his words, to the thrilling low notes and the rough music in his voice.

He has the look of someone whose soul got up and walked away in disgust a long time ago.

dire effects of habitual and unchecked pleasure on his mortal soul.”

knowing it was wrong, but wanting to. Oh wanting to, wanting to do his great loving terrible God’s work always, always.

Neither of them is surprised that in a moment of crisis a man is nowhere to be found.