My husband Fel exhales bioluminescence. Embarrassed of the glow, he likes to stay in the house. We were already married on our first date. Sitting in the darkened movie theater, Fel held his drink cup to his lips, his nostrils foggy blue. He prefers films of adventure, life-or-death, the cold breath in front of you that could be your last, how he must see himself in public, I realized during the end credits. But he urged us to dinner, and beer foam disguised his neon breath, disguised his shyness, too, so I drove home as he leaned his head back amidst powdery puffs while children in other cars may have wondered how a sleeping man smoked. Guilty and sheepish, in bed I asked, “What was the best part of date night?” Then the Cartwheel Galaxy, the Orion Nebula or a small universe in his reply, “Being home again with you.”
Fiction by Lydia Ship appears or is forthcoming in PANK, Hobart, Requited Journal, Night Train, A Capella Zoo, Fringe, The 2nd Hand, and The Battered Suitcase, among several others; last spring, one of her stories received a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is a Contributing Editor at The Chattahoochee Review. Find links to more of her fiction here: www.lydiaship.com
This is a marvelous example of magical realism, and a marvelously romantic tale as well. I like that the glowing exhalations end with glowing words.