The Hunting Wives

by May Cobb

I looked up and realized we were stranded in a sea of skinny jeans, all worn by the men. Each of them also clad in Top-Siders or low-top Converse sneakers. Their hair graying, their hands frantic as they routinely checked their iPhones. The women all drenched in designer clothes. (And I love nice clothes myself, but on a Saturday morning? It felt forced.) And everyone keyed up on Starbucks and straining to be happy. Hovering over the children and looking downright exhausted.

Daydream about a life with less exhaust, more trees, more nature, more time.

There’s something feral and rough about her that’s hidden beneath her blank, cow-brown eyes.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH me? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, I am happy; there’s part of me that is fulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not. I feel terrible even having these feelings; Graham is golden. Maybe everyone secretly feels this way about their lives?

I sometimes catch myself staring at Graham, at his open happiness and fulfillment with family life, and find myself envious of how uncomplicated, how simple his needs seem to be. I’m tired of being the complicated one.