Swamp Monsters Make Bad Housewives

by Tyler Rinne

I woke up with one of her scales stuck to my cheek

 the other day. I noticed it after I’d put one contact

 in. Squinting closed my contact-less eye, I peeled it

 off and laid it on our faux-marble sink. I used to 

think they looked like slices of opal, as if a gem had

been shaved by a pastrami slicer to arrange a

beautiful jigsaw puzzle on her skin. I used to think

they were beautiful. And now? Now they look like

 rotten toenails. Rotten toenails that I pick off the 

carpet, off the sofa, off the bed.

We used to lie in that bed tucked like sardines in 

love. The sheets would get a wetness to them - 

morning dew that misted from her body. “This gives

a whole new meaning to water-bed,” I’d whisper 

She’d giggle and I’d kiss her on the small dorsal fin

that jutted out from the nape of her neck. We’d just lie there.

These days, though, her dew is more of a drizzle.

 I have to change the sheets every morning or our

comforter starts sprouting little copper-topped 

toadstools that make me sneeze. “This gives a whole

new meaning to bed-wetter,” I mumble to myself as I 

cram another soggy sheet into the washer.

She lounges in the bath.

That’s another thing! I know she needs water to stay

alive. I know that. But must she whet her gills at the

 dinner table?

There was a time I thought it was cute when I’d be taking a shower and she’d sneak into the bathroom and pull back the rubber ducky print curtain and step in. “Just need a drink,” she’d coo. I’d let her stand between me and the showerhead and put my hands on her hips while the water ran down her face and neck and gills. Then she’d turn around, kiss me on the chin, say thanks and go back to whatever she was doing before her spiracles dried up, and I’d shampoo my hair.

Now, she’s just come back from getting groceries and is unloading them onto the table when she says, “I was thinking we could go to The Lake tonight?”

I shift in my recliner, squeaking. A guy doesn’t realize how fidgety he is until he covers all his furniture with plastic. I run my bare toes over the living room tile. Tile, tile, everywhere. We can’t put down rugs, of course, just bathmats.

“Okay,” I say and get my shoes and keys and coat.

Up at The Lake Bar & Grille, the bartender says, “Excuse me, but your wife is making a mess.”

My beer pauses halfway on its journey to my mouth and I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s wearing a feathered gray and black sweater that makes him look like a goose. I drop my eyes to the the pool of water beneath my wife’s barstool, and as I watch it, another large drop slides over her big toe and sandal, into her growing pond on the hardwood floor.

“You can clean it up or you can get out,” says the goose.

“It’s just water,” I say, setting down my beer.

“Yeah, and that’s all she’s drinking, too. Not my loss if you hit the road.”

“Listen, pal,” I start to say, but stop when I feel a clammy hand on my forearm.

“It’s okay, honey,” says my wife. “Let’s just go.”

I take my wife by the arm and give the goose a parting glare, feeling his beedy eyes on our backs as we walk out into the night.

“I’m sorry,” I say, winding my arm around her waist and tucking her into my side. We walk across the parking lot like that. She slides her cheek up against mine and leaves it there.

“Don’t be,” she says. “It’s not your fault. Besides, our movie’s on tonight.”

I open the passenger door for her. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. ”I’ve never understood why you’re not offended.” I crawl onto the driver’s seat, and the car sinks a little with my weight.

“I know,” she says. “I think it’s funny.”

I buckle up and stick the keys into the ignition.

“Oh,” says my wife, giggling. She reaches out and picks something off my cheek. “Sorry,” she says, holding up one of her scales. and with the fluorescent parking lot lights shining through the windshield, it almost looks like a little slice of opal.