Could you pull out a can of sardines to have with lunch?, he asked me, so I got up from my chair, put down the financial pages, and walked into the kitchen. The newspaper fell to the ground, falling out of order. I stepped on the pages as I walked away. I realized he hadnt been listening to a thing I said.
He had to look for a job, I had told him before. This apartment is too small and we still cant afford it. I put in so many extra hours at work, and he doesnt even help at home. There are dishes left from last week. There is spaghetti sauce crusted on one of the plates in the sink. I opened up the pantry, moved the cans of string beans and cream corn. There was an old can of peaches in the back; I didnt even know it was there. I found a sardine can in the back of the shelf.
I saw him from across the apartment as I opened up the can. "We have to do something about this," I said. "I cant even think in this place. Im tired of living in a cubicle."
He closed the funny pages. Get used to it, honey. This is all well ever get. You think youll get better? You think you deserve it? For some people, this is all theyll get. Thats just the way life is.
I looked at the can. I looked at the little creatures crammed into their little pattern. It almost looked like they were supposed to be that way, like they were created to be put into a can. The smell made me dizzy. I pushed the can away from me. I couldnt look at it any longer.
The Apartment
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Chicago Poet and Poetry
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