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 put him out like a cat a million times but like a cat he has a habit of slinking back and curling up in the warm corners of her mind.

Watching her sets up a calm bright feeling in Mahony: here life continues, against the landslide, against the darkness.

Shauna smiles over her shoulder. “Stay here with us, Mahony. It’s where your friends are.” Mahony is bowled over. He smiles down at a tea cozy.