If she was to believe what they'd taught her, she was put on earth to help her husband. Not important enough to warrant a new blueprint, she'd had to settle for a rib. And so she had. Helped, that is. She helped look through the paper, helped lug his obsession into their living room. But she suspected sometimes that Eve had a dark side, a side carefully hidden under layers of self regret and sadness, frustration and logic. A dark side glimpsed in the pools of Eden, a calculation she felt running through her veins - the blood of Eden surfacing in her sterile bathroom, her mask wavering under the brief shock of cold water each morning.
She sipped her coffee, the still house wrapped solidly around her shoulders. Standing in the kitchen, she felt its presence even there - four legs, a massive slab of wood, pushing her to the periphery, confining her to the fringes of the room. She felt the panic rising, felt the sting of a drop of coffee landing on her hand as her cup shook. She took the cup in both hands, lifted it to her face. Instead of taking another sip, she licked the drop off her hand, salt and caffeine mixing on her tongue.
Had it always been this way?
No.
She looked down, took in a sharp breath, the serpent at her feet sliding and twining, avoiding the sudden shower of shattered porcelain and coffee with ease.
No, it said again. She blinked, and it was gone.
She cleaned up. She was good at that. They'd bought the house, so she cleaned it. He mowed the lawn. And when they had company, she lit candles, made sure everyone had drinks. And now, they all had something to set those drinks on. A lot of drinks.
The living room had been hers up to this point. But this table had changed all that. He had to have it, you see, had to have somewhere to put his drink. Standing in the kitchen, she closed her eyes, staring at the darkness. When she opened her eyes, she also opened the cupboard. She had to find out.
32. The coffee table held 32 drinks.
She sat in the chair, glaring at the table, at the cups growing out of its broad back like empty sores. Her breath came faster, and she gripped the arms of the chair, hearing the rhythmic scratch of her nails on the fabric. She didn't see the snake, but heard it sliding across the back of her chair, heard its voice, felt the flick of its tongue, dry and light, at the base of her neck. Yessss, it said. She shivered, then, knowing what she had to do.
She launched herself at the coffee table. Her muscles burned with the joy of release as she grabbed a leg and flipped the beast on its side. Glasses and cups flew off, some thudding to the carpet, some splintering one on top of the other, exploding with sharp cracks and clinks. Sweating, she dragged the mass to the back door. A shard had lodged itself under one of the legs, and as she heaved it across the hardwood floor, the table left a trail, a long gouge testifying its unwillingness to go.
The back door posed a problem. It stuck there on end, two legs out, two legs stubbornly wedged inside her house. She licked the sweat off her upper lip and kicked. And kicked. She grunted with effort. With no one to hear her, she screamed. Inch by inch, the table scraped through the doorway and fell flat on its back onto the deck.
She stepped through the door into the cool, morning air. Her skin drank it in. Hefting the table by one end, she tipped it up. She held it there for a moment, long enough to hear a blue jay scream, long enough to feel the silence afterward. Then she pushed. Her hair had come down out of its customary clip, and she felt the wind of the table's passing brush stray hairs away from her face. A last breath. It didn't fall easily, but chipped at the wood deck stairs, sending splinters flying from its path. At the bottom it lay still.
She could feel her heart pounding, could see her breath steam as it collided with the morning. She went down the steps. It was no effort now, really, to drag the beast to the middle of the back yard. The shed doors squealed, metal on metal. Lighter fluid sat exactly where it should, next to the grill. It splashed nicely on the prone table, four legs stiff and upraised, pleading with the sky, or perhaps the trees, neatly arranged in rows. The first match caught and she stood, mesmerized by the flames leaping and licking, devouring the form in front of her. The heat made her cheeks flush.
When all that remained were small, charred shapes and pulsing, red-orange lumps, she went inside. She returned with a bucket of water. She poured it slowly over the remains, closed her eyes and relished the long hissssssssss, the release of steam washing over her outstretched arms.
