Plato's Cave During the Slicer Wars and other short stories

by Terri Kouba

He scowls at me from across the room. “You have enslaved me. Give me a man who is not passion’s slave and I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of hearts.” His fingers scratch at morning stubble on his chin.

  “Will you take a woman who is passion’s slave? Will you keep the heart of my heart in your heart’s core?

  He slumps into the hotel chair. “Are dothest sure yeah haven’t betrayed me?” His chin trembles, a fat lip balanced on a thin line. “Wonth thouest betray me, soeth I can enact revenge? Revenge, revenge, best served cold.”

  “Drink your coffee, before it gets cold.” I pull a thick sweatshirt over my shoulder-bare blouse to hide my smile. Fog had snuck into the valley over night and the damp clung to the ground as if Macbeth had screwed not his courage but his fog to the sticking place.

  My husband hates the fog. We moved from Berkeley to the plains of Kansas just to get away from the wet blanket that crawled across the land, blotting out the sun, seeping into his bones until they hurt. I was born in the fog, grew up in its mist, rose with its lifting. But I left the fog and followed the man who carried my heart.