He recoiled from the slap, and it made me smug; I felt powerful.  The faint red outline graced his cheek, and I liked it, it was becoming.  He should always wear that, I thought.  That look hadn’t left his eyes though, if anything it had increased.

            The look where he was going to hurt someone.  He wanted that someone to be me this time.  I knew it, and I was scared.

            We were sitting at a table inside the church.  We were eating old people food, scalloped potatoes and coleslaw and ham and peanut butter cookies.  We weren’t as somber as you’d expect – after all, the lady’s death we were mourning had been 103 years old when she died.  There isn’t much to mourn when someone passes after such a full life.         

            It was then that he sauntered over, thinking he looked sharp in his suit, though his fat belly and grizzled beard belied something less than dapper.  He whispered something in Grandpa’s ear.  I tensed.  The two weren’t on good terms, it couldn’t be good.  He pulled away from Grandpa’s ear, and I saw his face, and the look was there.

            I sighed inside.  Here we go again.

            Grandma was furious.  She stood up, old and withered but still strong, still standing straight, her eyes grey, but not from the fog of senility.  She was talking to him in hushed tones, but his tones were anything but hushed.  He yelled at her, he yelled at his mother, he screamed in front of everyone.  All eyes were turned towards them, and I was embarrassed.  “You’re disgusting!” he yelled.  Sitting next to her, you treat my ex-wife better than you treat your own son!”

I stood up and walked towards them.  My eyes were blazing, my stride was purposeful.  I slapped him.

            “Stop it right now.”  I couldn’t believe it, no one could believe it.  To disgrace a day so sacred, to aggravate the deceased’s son.  Somehow we ended up outside, Kathie and Josh and Lacey and Glenda and Mike and Robby.

            My mom and brother and me and Grandma and dad (I will not capitalize it, I will not dignify him with that title) and Uncle.

            He was still yelling, he tends to do things this way, the yelling and anger.  Josh was distraught, but in his own way, trying to calm everyone down like he always does (and it kills me, to see him acting one hundred percent the adult, when he learned that skill too early).

            He always does, even when he has to break doors down.          

            I was distraught, but in my own way, angry and on fire, with tears smudging my carefully applied makeup and staining the blouse and slacks I had borrowed from my mother.  Angry words were spouted by everyone, but I don’t remember them.  It was a swirl, I was lacking oxygen.

            My anger was replaced by sadness, and I choked out words that would be heartrending to a sane man.

            “Why?  Why couldn’t you just let us have this one day, this one day to mourn.  Why did you have to fuck things up?  I’m thirty years younger than you, and I’m capable of maturity unlike you.”

            “This is your fault too, Lacey.”

            “Me?  What have I done?”

            “You didn’t tell me you were coming to this funeral!”

            “Dad, why would I tell you?  I don’t even talk to you!”

            “That’s your fault too!”

            “My fault?  You fucked up our family, you left.  You married that bitch.”

            He lunged at me, arm cocked.  I stepped back, uncertain.  That look hadn’t left his face, he still wanted to hurt.

            I know he’s capable.  I know.

            And that bitch pulled up in their new car, and he got inside.  Josh went too, and he had won again, he had separated us, he had ruined things, he had put fear inside of me, he had demonstrated his capacity and the narcissism and insanity which so defines him as father.      

I wrote this, blah blah blah.  CRITICISM is appreciated, please. Michael already gave me some.

PS it's not finished.  Just want some feedback so far.

They slid us into long, plastic tubes.  We were wearing hospital gowns, crisp and white with red polka dots, the color of passion.  They were meant to be fun, to give dying patients a spot of joy in their life, but they were just morbid.  The backs were exposed, and he kept trying to sneak a look behind me.  He didn’t say anything and tried to hide it, but I knew.  I always knew, with him.

            The tubes weren’t uncomfortable or anything.  The surface which we laid upon was something like red foam.  It indented slightly at the touch.  The sides were composed of lights and plastic and metal.  I didn’t understand them and I didn’t care to.  I was only interested in the outcome.

            They had given us eye masks, and I put them on.  The light could permanently damage our eyes.  There are some things doctors can’t fix.  The lights lit up on the sides, one by one flashing and whirring on.  I wanted to touch them, to see if they were hot, but I didn’t.  I just lay there, hoping.

            Images of him rushed across the lenses of my eye mask.  My heart beat faster, my hair raised, my mouth curled at the corners.  A recording of his voice sounded inside the tube.  My fingers clenched with loss (they wanted to feel his skin), my eyes glinted with joy, my soul ached without his body pressed against mine.

            They showed pictures of him, and they showed pictures of other men I knew.  They played recordings of his voice, and they played recordings of other men I knew.  They listed his hobbies, and hobbies of other men I knew.

            Then it was over.  There was no pain, there was no probing or feeling or phase of discomfort.  They slid us out of the plastic tubes, our asses still too friendly with the air, the little blonde hairs perked up and dancing.  They didn’t get out much.

            The giant computer screen filled up the entire wall. Images of our brains were plastered all over it, areas lit up red and green and yellow, and it felt pornographic somehow, being exposed so nakedly before doctors and nurses.

            All with our ass-hair still dancing.

            He held my hand and smiled at me.  The main doctor threw some jargon at us.  We nodded like we knew, and he escorted us out.  He made a point to walk in front of us, not behind us.  I’m sure he had seen enough backsides.

            He waved goodbye, pointed out our clothes, shook hands and chucked smiles. 

            “It should arrive within a week.  Thank you.”  Another round of handshaking.  They guys were mad about it.  Not too firm, not too soft.  Like gripping a peach.

            We dressed and the left the clinic.  He drove, and he held my hand while he did.  We felt awkward, like we didn’t trust our own instincts, like we didn’t trust each other when we whispered it after we made love and our bodies were streamed with sweat and lust still hung above us in purple and red clouds.

            It came in the mail exactly one week later.  It was in a yellow envelope, and the paper inside was slightly yellow as well.  It had all kinds of statistics on it.  Dopamine levels at this point, serotonin levels rising at that point, number of neuron connections when this picture was displayed, brain activity this voice level.

            And who would have guessed?

            Not I, not Michael, not our friends and family who envied us (can you believe it?  They envied us) for being so in love, for sharing those glances, for loving that singular gesture or the way he laughed when something was funny, really funny.

            We aren’t in love.

            Right down at the very bottom of that yellow piece of paper, there were two boxes outlined in black.  There was on syllable in each box.  One word.  Two letters: ‘No.’

            No, we are not in love.

            And he doesn’t want me anymore.  He let that stupid machine dictate the rest of my life, and the rest of his.

            “Michael, why does it matter?  We feel like we’re in love.  What if the machine is wrong?  Give it a chance!  Maybe one day we’ll fall in love, in real love!”

“No.  No more chances, Dee.  It’s all been a lie, we didn’t even know, I don’t want us to fall apart when it’s too late.”

Michael’s family had fallen apart.  He was scared ours would.  He doesn’t take risks.  He drives the speed limit.  He refuses to scuba dive.  But there’s comfort and security in that; his caution led me to love him.

I wept.  He held me, but he didn’t want to, and I knew it; I told him to let me go.  I told him to leave.  He unwrapped his arms from around my body and he left, and I sat there in the middle of the kitchen, the cold linoleum bleaching my bones icy.  I traced the patterns on it, white squares with tiny flowers in the corners, a giant red rose in the middle.  A tear dropped onto the middle of the rose, and I rubbed it away with my finger.  I sat there for an hour or more, and I stood up.  My legs were weak.  I held onto the counter for support and I walked to the bedroom we used to share.

I slept with an extra blanket.  It was cold without him there.   

            It is two weeks later.  The red flag on our mailbox was upright, and another paper from the clinic just came in the mail.  It is yellow, just like the first paper was.  It has dopamine and serotonin levels just like that first paper had.  Only this time, the word in the little black-outlined box had three letters.  Yes.  Stapled to the back was another sheet of yellow paper, with a short note from the clinic:

            “Our apologies.  We initially sent you the results for another couple.  The correct results are on the page prior to this one.  We sincerely regret this decision.”

            I choked.  I called Michael, and he came over.  He didn’t ask why, he just came.  I showed him the new paper.  He hugged me and whispered in my ear.

            “Things will be better now.  Things can be like they used to be.”  He wanted it to be simple, for the cure to be ready and available and cheap. 

            But it wasn’t simple.  It wasn’t available, and it was more expensive than we could ever hope to afford.

            He tried to kiss my mouth.  I moved my head, and I stepped away from his embrace.

            “No, Michael, things won’t be better now.  It’s too late.”

            It was too late.