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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 28 | volume V | September-October, 2002



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 28September-October, 2002
Prose

My Husband

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p. 1
David Albahari

     Today is Friday. Every day since Monday my husband, when he comes back from work, remains sitting in his car, parked in front of our house. He doesn’t move at all. He just sits there, and only sometimes does he bend his neck and touch the edge of steering wheel with his forehead.
     He sits longer and longer. On Monday he got out of the car after fifteen minutes; on Wednesday he stayed in the car for almost an hour. The streetlights are on now, and he, the dark silhouette, is still sitting.
     On the first day, when he came into the house, I touched his cheek with my palm. He didn’t look up. I did not touch him again after that, did not ask him anything. I was patient. When we went to bed, I lifted my nightgown all the way up to my chin, moved closer to him, and put my legs around him. He slipped his hand between my thighs, like he always did, but I knew that his fingers were at some other place.
     Last week, in one of the houses on our street, a dead woman was discovered. Her neighbour called the police because the cats in the house of the dead woman, who at that time was not thought of as being dead, did not stop meowing. When the door was broken down, cats ran outside. The woman was discovered in her bedroom, on the floor, by the bed.
     I remembered that yesterday. I thought that there was some connection between her death and my husband’s behaviour, but I quickly gave up trying to find out what it was. It is not easy to think of somebody’s death, even though neither my husband nor I knew what that woman looked like.
     The cats stay in her yard. Sometimes they go behind our house, tear our garbage bags, pull out the scraps of food.
     I don’t know what time it is anymore. My husband is still sitting in the car, partially lit by the street lamp. If he doesn’t get out soon, I’ll have to fetch him a blanket. When we moved here, the apple tree in front of our house was in full bloom, but now it’s autumn, branches are bare, nights are cold, clouds gather up in the sky.
     I think of our neighbours. They have certainly noticed what was going on






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