LAMBHEAD (short story)

She set the cloth. It was silky and white, the ends fraying. Then she grabbed two glasses, and his

favorite wine from the local vineyard. Two plates, one slightly bigger, and the other cracking; for

herself. Clara stared at the plating, humming before turning on her bare sole and grabbed a

rusting red pot. Her feet lightly plapped on the floorboard before she hovered over his plate; the

one that took up space, the one they didn't need and plopped a heavy cloud of potato before

creating a small pond on the top. Steam rose and danced while she sculpted around the plate until

she was pleased with the result. She looked at the clock on the wall. 5:22PM. He should be home

soon. She turned around and placed down the hefty pot back on the stove. She stood taller and

straightened out her white dress and walked to her seat.

The door opened at 7:15PM.

Clara stood from her seat, the legs groaning against the floor. The man reeked of vanilla. She

wringed her hands into her dress and gripped it before speaking.

"You're late" she lipped. He dropped his messenger bag on the floor, raising a brow.

"Youre fine." he replied

"You are late." Her face got hot

"Work caught up." He kicked off his dirty boots.

"The food is cold." She turned her head out, thin eyebrows caving together.

"Heat it up?" he dismissed, shrugging off his rich brown coat, and hanging it.

"Its been two hours." Her expression hardened at his words.

"I got busy."

"Ive waited two hours." She brought a hand up and harshly pointed at her chest.

"I had a long day. Just heat it up." He crossed his arms and walked past the table and into their

shared room.

Her knuckles felt like they were going to pop. The meal went quiet; it's been quiet for some time.

Clara stared at his plate before dragging her legs over and picking it up. She brought it to the

oven that was still warm and placed it inside. This could still be salvaged.

/

"I love another woman" the man states before shoveling a piece of rubbery steak into his mouth.

The trees whistled and swayed static against the window sills. The woman's neck snapped up,

her jaw unlatched. Lukewarm mash potatoes fell to the table. The fork did too.

The man glanced at her before speaking once. "Im leaving tonight." Clara was left agape,

watching her husband stand up. The chair scraped the floor as he stood, palms on the table. "I'm

taking a train. She wants to go to England, visit her grandma" The man explained, holding the

woman's shaky glare. Clara heaved a breath standing as well. Her fingers danced around a steak

knife. "I don't love you, Clara."

The woman vaulted onto the table, wine glasses flailing to the ground, the table cloth sputtered

and layered like butter cream over each other. She crawled like a bear, bare feet becoming sticky.

She lunged at the man. Spearing the knife into warm clothing, hitting over and over.

light tap, tap, tap's filled the room; it was potent with sweet wine and iron. She stared at his face.

She cupped his face examining it before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. She rose from her

knees, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The table was a mess. Splatter of red

and purple danced on the wood flooring, the food had gone cold as well.

She looked back down to her husband. Her feet plapped against the wetness of the floor, thin

fingers making their way to his ankles, before pulling him.

/

She stared at the rotting meat in front of her. It had been a few days. It was dusted in pink frost,

maroon slightly leaking onto the counter. A hatchet was held firmly in the woman's thin hand,

her thumb running across the handle. She wrenched her arm and twisted her wrist, slamming it

into the chunk of meat. It sliced easily. She lifted it out, and began the process of cutting it into

cutlets. The radio played, crackling against every jagged slice. She finished, staring at the final

product.

'Dass wir lieb uns hatten, das sah man gleich daraus. Und alle Leute soll'n es seh'n. Wenn wir 

bei der Laterne steh'n. Wie einst, Lili Marleen. Wie einst, Lili Marleen. Deine Schritte kennt sie, 

deinen schönen Gang. Alle Abend brennt sie, doch mich vergaß sie lang. Und sollte mir ein Leid 

gescheh'n. Wer wird bei der Laterne stehen. 

Mit dir, Lili Marleen? Mit dir, Lili Marleen? 

The trees bristled against the open window, the white blinds moving with the dancing. Music

played on the radio while the woman kneaded yeast on a dirted board. She wore a long pleated

dress that reached her ankles and a white apron. She hummed off tune to the song, grabbing a

lame and running down a deep line in the middle of the dough. She watched as it separated

before she made delicate leaf designs on the left side, and diagonal lines on the right. The music

ended before Clara finished scoring the bread, placing it into the oven. She twirled on her heel;

opening the fridge door and pulling out a plate covered with a thin cloth. steaks laid on it,

smelling lightly. She grabbed the biggest one she could see. She smiled at it before prepping the

meat with salt and pepper; his favorite.

/

She set the table. This time, the cloth was a baby yellow, devoted to any mess. Her favorite color.

She grabbed one glass and filled it with a darker, richer wine. He could never handle bitter tastes.

She placed the steak onto the cracked plate, humming at the placement before sitting down. The

woman sighed content, smiling at her meal.

Thin fingers reached for a fork, stabbing the meat.

On time, for once.

SLUTA

creator note: happy valentines :)