The Hole in Our Lives

The police stayed for nearly an hour, crouching in the kitchen, looking under the couch in the living room and asking if we had moved any of the furniture, or if this was the way the apartment always looked. The hole in the wall facing the recliner was small, but larger than a pushpin would make, and the plaster around the circle was crumbling, a little more each time a different officer went to measure the length of the bullet hole. The television remained on, an infomercial about trimming pet claws hung in the room like the lopsided quilt and a frameless picture of the Maui sunset we both agreed was the vacation that saved our marriage, for how long I was still uncertain. What I did know was that neither Gus nor I wanted to sit in the recliner after the shooting, and no amount of rearranging the room could change our minds. It was as if the bullet had turned the chair against us, but we pretended as if we were the ones with the problem (not the wounded chair), and we wanted to distance ourselves from its velvety arms, wooden handle, even the faint pinstriped design I swore would always look good in our lives.