Iceberg

He couldn't understand why she suddenly turned cold. She looked at him but he doubted she really saw him. He tried to talk to her, ask about her day, and even suggested one of the menus they had always enjoyed for that night's dinner. But she remained still, unnerved, unspeaking.

So he went down to the kitchen and called for pizza. He opened the television and flicked through news channels. He sat on the sofa and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Still, no sound from upstairs.

He wished, for the millionth time, that he knew what was happening. Something was breaking inside his own house and he had no idea what was it. But like always, he gave her space. He knew she had trouble breathing, literally and figuratively, and having him around could only make it worse for her.

Thirty minutes, said the pizza boy when he called. He wished it was sooner, then he could call on her again. Every minute took forever to come.

Barely ten minutes had passed when he heard a blood-curdling scream. He dashed to their bedroom, bruising his knee and cutting his palm on the way.

At the door, he saw her standing. Her hand was on the knob, as if on her way to close the door behind her. Then she looked up at him and smiled.

The iceberg had melted. Or maybe, it was just its tip.

Photo by: Runolfur Hauksson