Dark Circles

The husband and wife my husband and I met at the dinner party both have undereye circles so dark they are almost purple. Even though they smiled often enough, the dark rings gave the couple a haunted, intimidating air, as if they had glimpsed the end of the world, and we didn’t talk to them much. We talked about them—or rather, their dark circles—later that night in bed. We wondered if the dark circles could have predated the marriage and even sparked the initial attraction between the future husband and wife, causing each to recognize in the other a second self. Or perhaps they came after the marriage and are being caused by the same factor; the meals the husband and wife share could be missing the same important nutrient, or the same city noise or streetlight could be keeping them both awake, or they could be worried about or grieving for the same person. Or perhaps they have caused them in each other—the dark circles arose from whatever they are in the habit of doing together that is keeping them up: fighting, or making love, or reading out loud, or speculating late into the night about couples they hardly know.

A Small Danger Remains

I am no seamstress, but no one would see the rough stitches I was hash-marking in the ripped lining of my husband’s coat pocket, through which he’d lost many things—money, keys, his phone. When I was nearly finished, I lost my needle. I’d set it down to adjust the coat on my lap and when I reached for it, it jumped off the table where it had been resting. I couldn’t see where it went. This is why people have pincushions, I thought, but I didn’t have a pincushion. It was remarkable really that I had a needle and thread that matched the coat well enough.

I thought the needle was likeliest to have landed on the coat itself. I inspected it, then got up and flapped it over the chair where I’d been sitting, in the corner of the living room by the light. Nothing. I inspected the chair, and then the floor under and around it. I didn’t see the needle anywhere.

My first impulse was to get my husband to help me look. But I thought it unlikely that he would find it; his eyes are exactly as bad as mine, and I am usually the one who finds things. I thought it more likely that he would upbraid me for my carelessness; he could sit on the needle, or the dogs could step on it, and was I going to be the one to take them to the vet if they did? If we didn’t find it, from then on, every time we went to the living room, he’d inquire about the needle and lower himself onto the couch with exaggerated wariness. After long enough, it might turn into a joke; wherever he sat, he might say, “Ouch!” and I would laugh but also feel something poking me. I decided to take my chances; if the needle was somewhere I couldn’t find it, perhaps it was also somewhere it wouldn’t hurt anyone. I took another needle, finished my sewing, and this second needle I made sure to put away neatly.

Later that night, when my husband was showering, I looked for the lost needle with the help of a flashlight, to no avail. I put on my reading glasses and crawled around the living room with my nose very close to the floor. No needle. The following week, I expanded my search field, even flipping books over and shaking them and tapping the dirt around potted plants fruitlessly. That was last month. More recently, I’ve checked for the needle in the fruit bowls on the kitchen counter, between the sheets of our bed, and in the cupholders in the car where all manner of things appear, but not the needle. We sat outside on the porch last night, and I caught myself scanning the early spring grass, looking for something sharp.

No one has so far been injured. The days are already lengthening. It will be summer soon, and in the sharper light, the glint of the needle may be easier to see.

Miracle Grow

My husband planted grass seed but would water it only once a week, and then give it only a quick sprinkle, saying it is drought-resistant grass. I too am ambivalent about grass, but I pitied the grass he so carefully planted, which, after the spring rains were over, quickly began yellowing under the hot sun. So I began watering it generously when he was gone, which he was for work, a few nights every week. Now he thinks the drought-resistant grass grows magnificently without water and is sure we do not need to water it even one day a week.

Amber Burke graduated from Yale and the Writing Seminars MFA Program at Johns Hopkins University. She now teaches writing and yoga at UNM-Taos. Her work has been published in in swamp pink, The Sun, Michigan Quarterly Review, Flyway, X-R-A-Y, Quarterly West, and Superstition Review, among other places. She is also a regular contributor to Yoga International and co-author of the yoga ebook, Yoga for Common Conditions.