Unravelling

Unravelling
by Keith Good
(Originally Publised in PULP Lit Mag, Issue 7) 

 

Darren first notices lint as he scalds the last of Sophia from his skin. He plucks a tangle from his breast, watches it circle the shower drain, and thinks nothing of it until much, much later 

 

* * * 

 

“Oh, honey.” Michelle stretches toward her crumpled panties. “You should be proud: once in nineteen years is a hell of a batting average.” 

But Darren is seething at his shriveled turtle. Out from your shell, damn you! He pulls a stray hair from the tip which unravels to a long, ginger strand. Panicked, he jokes that it looks like their tabby’s. Except Rosencrantz has been dead since before Maeve left for college, since the poor cat ate a twist tie that knotted his intestines. 

Darren’s wife tucks the covers tight to her chest. “That's not funny.”  

She’s absolutely right: it’s not. 

 

* * * 

 

“You’ll...excuse...” Darren bolts from his first board meeting. The halls spin. He’d convinced himself it was their Korean-made dryer leaving lint on his clothes. But on a brand-new silk shirt? He stumbles into his office, iron filling his lungs, and wrenches his cuff to the elbow. He scrapes deep into his forearm. Gooseflesh ripples down his scalp as a long string unravels from his skin like a scab, like the dead skin after a blister. He gulps bright-hot oxygen and digs for another. 

“Siri,” he sighs, “buy some crochet hooks.” 

 

* * * 

 

More strings flutter as Sophia peels his boxers. She curls one between her fingers. 

“Did some manscaping for our weekly meeting, did you?” 

“I think I’m unravelling,” Darren finally admits. 

She looks up, takes him in her hand. 

“Give me a few minutes and you just might.” 

 

* * * 

“And when did these, ‘strings,’” the teletherapist takes a punctuating breath, “start unravelling from your body?” 

Darren can only shake his head. His exhausted thoughts are fog drifting across a wide, dark sea. 

“Okay,” the therapist clicks something on their screen, “what’s the first string you remember, then?” 

Darren closes his eyes. Rose bodywash fills his nose. Steam burns his skin. 

“I was in Sophia’s shower.” 

“Okay, ah okay,” the therapist leans back, “and what do you think about that?” 

 

* * * 

 

Michelle tries to reach across the growing chasm of their sofa. “Sweetie. I’m glad you found a hobby, but...knitting a doll of yourself?” She retreats, tucks her legs under her. “Whatever this is, Darren, you can talk to me.” 

But the more Darren fumbles for explanations, the more people try to fix him. Go for a jog. Stop drinking caffeine. Masturbate. He turns from his wife to peel a string from his lip, starts crocheting his doll’s mouth. 

 

* * * 

 

Sophia cinches the silk robe at her throat. “You want me to have a threesome with this doll?” 

“Oh, no.” Darren shakes his head. “He just wants to watch.” 

Later, the wooly tapping on Darren’s shoulder—Switch!—is unsurprising. He’s gone soft anyway. Alone in the darkened corner, Darren can finally see how bestial, how ugly, how utterly tiring the act looks. 

Sophia moans her prayers, “god, Darren, yes,” as he picks string after string from his thigh, his wrist, his cheek. 

 

* * * 

 

“This is exactly what the board meant when they said, ‘batshit,’ Darren.” The HR rep pulls her pad of triplicate forms, taupe-pink-green. “You can’t bring your Muppet into meetings.” 

Darren opens his mouth but his words are desiccated. He can only watch as the doll swipes termination papers from under HR's pen. 

“Tell the board to piss off.” The doll rips each page in half. “Tell them they can count the clients that disappear if I walk. Now if you’ll excuse us,” the doll throws termination confetti and strides out, “we’re going on a long overdue vacation.” 

Darren can only shrug apology and follow. 

 

* * * 

 

A text pings. “Where R U? Kinda looking forward to more 🍆🍑💦 after last Wed.” The doll swipes Sophia’s message from Darren’s phone and blocks the number.  

 

* * * 

“Jesus, Darren, whatever you watched, whatever you read...wow.” Michelle’s toes curl the folds of their crumpled duvet. Dewy sweat glitters her skin. “You had me worried, you know. You felt so listless. I was starting to think…” But the intense heat of afterglow dissolves the thought. 

“I know it’s been an adjustment, Em.” The doll traces the curve of Michelle’s breast with a woolen finger. “New job. Empty nest. But I’m here now.” It kisses her clavicle. “Thank you for allowing me the space,” another kiss, “to remake myself.” Its hand slides down her belly. “Now. We’ve got a few hours before Maeve returns for break...” 

Darren lets Michelle’s fluttering sighs carry him from their bedroom. At last, still and silent and alone, he finds peace.