Story Fragment - "Upon Further Inspection"

Story fragments are bits and pieces of stories. They're incomplete. That's the point. 

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Upon Further Inspection 

He stood there with his elbows folded, their tips in the center of his chest, and his hips thrust forward.

He moved a hand, keeping his elbows close to his body, and pulled at the fat of his cheek. 

“What did they prescribe you?” he asked. 

The woman to whom the question was posed was sitting at the kitchen table. Two untouched over-easy eggs occupied a circular white plate. A piece of toast — cut on the diagonal — rested on a napkin. She scratched it with the nail of her right index finger. 

“Term—” she started. “Dex-o—” she pushed her finger into the table and smushed a few crumbs. 

His eye narrowed, a reflection of his pursed, thin lips. “I see.” He said and took a seat.  “Some people respond to medicine this way. How long have you been taking it?” His one hand was still tugging at his cheek.

The woman was staring at the center of her plate. Her finger moved languidly. “Two, or three weeks. They gave me more. The other ones weren’t working.”

“What were the other ones?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” 

“I know I don’t feel well.”

He shifted his gaze to her plate “It’s because you don’t eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said and rocked his chair back on two legs. “You need to eat.” 

“Nothing looks good,”

“That doesn’t matter.” His tone grew shorter and sharper. The front two legs of his chairs landed with a snap on the linoleum. She had the peculiar habit of making herself miserable, and he had the peculiar habit of making himself miserable by pointing to just such a fact. 

“You need to go back to the doctor.”

“I’ve already been to the doctor.”

“Then it’s probably related to your lifestyle,” he said. “Like,” he moved his gaze from the plate back to her. “Like not eating.” 

She pushed her fingers into the center of her toast. 

“Or, not getting enough exercise. When was the last time you exercised?”

“I went for a walk the other day.”

“How far?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes,” the word wound around the kitchen. “It does. You should go for a walk.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“Because you don’t walk.”

“Is it because I don’t walk or because I don’t eat?”

“Yes,” he said. 

The morning was growing late.

“When you finish that,” he said, “I’ll make you lunch. What would you like?” 

Her finger was still in her toast and her eyes still on her eggs. “I’m not hungry.”

“I thought we covered this.”