Free Threats by Amelia Gray Page B

parakeet might smooth its beak.
    David leaned forward and gently pressed his cheek against hers. It was satisfying, though she felt nothing like an almond. “I understand your concern, but I’m beginning to grow worried for the physical object,” he said, cheek to cheek with Marie. “I believe it is within my legal right to keep it.”
    â€œI think you should come talk to me sometime,” she said, whispering, into his ear.
    Chico exhaled through his nose hard enough that David felt the blast on his face. He took a step back. “It is currently within your legal right,” Chico said. “I don’t enjoy the fact that you’re making that decision, though.”
    David held the wilted paper aloft. “This object has sentimental value.”
    â€œUnderstood,” Chico said. “We’re going to compromise.”
    â€œCompromise is the evidence of a civil class,” Marie said.
    Chico produced a pocket camera. “May I?”
    David looked first at the camera and then at Marie. He held the threat in his palms, protecting it, while Chico took his picture. Chico put his camera away and handed David a ziplock sandwich bag from his pocket.
    â€œKeep it in there,” he said. “Do you have a stapler?”
    David produced one from the junk drawer and Chico stapled the seal with three quick shots.
    â€œWe’ll head to the salon again. I’m sure we’ll find the ones that came by your home.”
    They both shook David’s hand on the way out, and Marie stepped over the pile of frozen clothes on the porch. On their way to the car, Chico touched her arm once above the elbow. “It may not be wise for David to have a private session just yet,” he said.
    â€œIt would be a safe space for him.”
    He opened her car door, stepped around the back, and got into the driver’s seat. “Maybe soon.” As they backed out of the driveway, Chico leveraged his arm against her seat while Marie watched the garage in front of her shrink back into the forest. The garage looked like a second house. She could see one pair of old wooden French doors propped slightly ajar by a substantial wasp’s nest that grew between the doors and held them in place.
    Inside, David examined the threat. Specks of sugar had fallen to the bottom of the sandwich bag. He thought about the absolute fact that a great number of details had gone unnoticed. He reheated the pot of water, filled his empty cup with sugar. The cup was full to its brim with sugar, and he had to put it in the sink when he poured the hot water in. The sugar sank under the liquid and clouded it, and David stirred it with a small spoon and blew across the surface before sipping the murky, sweet mixture, his lips pursed, his tongue lashing forward. He was a hummingbird. He held the cup at the center of his body, over his heart, wincing as the cup’s contents splashed over the lip and onto his fingers.

 
    27.
    THE YEARS had made Franny literal. It got to the point that when she found something funny, she would say so without laughing. David didn’t mind it. He appreciated a literal woman.
    Some winter, years before, they had watched a man struggle up the icy hill in front of their home. He plunged silver picks into the ice like an Alpine climber. The man slipped and howled as he fell, digging his pick into his own hand. He slid down the ice in a bloodied mass. Franny smiled, watching. “That was funny,” she said. She always asked to see comedies when they went to the movies. He would turn toward her during the funniest parts to find her bobbing her head in agreement. It was as if the characters were explaining the concept of humor to her and she was indicating that she understood. She moved her lips at the movie theater without making a sound.
    The only time she would really laugh was when David tried to compare her job to the one he had just been forced to leave. The first time he