What You Know
by Joe Mills
You can smell the smoke when he
comes home, but you don’t ask. He’ll
just shrug and say, “You know the bar.”
If you don’t ask, he won’t lie.
Don’t ask. Don’t tell. It has worked for the two of you for
years. It’s what keeps you with him now. You choose not to know what he does or where
he goes or what he thinks when he sits and stares. Whole parts of his life are blacked out like
blank spots on a map. You can live with
this. You have lived with this. You don’t need to know.
But you do know. You can smell his breath. You can smell the smoke on his shirt and
coat. It might just be from the air in
the bar, or he might have just had one or two.
Or a whole pack. And that’s
that. If you want, you can chart out how
you feel and what you might say to what he might say. It can all be done in the mind. You don’t have to ask to know.
But there’s a smell that’s not
smoke. A new one. A strong sweet one. One you don’t know. One that’s not from the bar. One that makes you more scared than the smoke. Don’t ask, and he won’t tell. Ask, and he still might not tell. Or he might.
Do you want to know? Do you need
to know?
But you do know. You have known the truth for years. You can smell it.
