One of the Boys (Short Story‪)‬

The tube from the mask over my mouth and nose trails like an umbilical cord to a machine behind me. I can't see it. I can't hear it. But sixteen times minute it puffs oxygen into my lungs. The I.V. clicks and drips, and oxygen hisses through the humidifier. I push the button to raise the bed. The walls are bare. Two men are in the room, old men, with rounded shoulders, gnarled limbs, and shuffling feet. Wearing green and gold jackets with Green Bay emblazoned on the breast and carrying yellow triangles of plastic that look like Swiss cheese, they cough and wipe their rheumy eyes. One of them is my husband; the other has ruined my life. They are a comfort to me. They are a comfort to each other. They move toward me. One of them squeezes my hand, which hurts where the IV needle disappears into a yellowing bruise on my arm. Their lips move and noise drones into the room. One of them leans over--it's my husband--his eyebrows are long and unkempt and his eyes are red-rimmed. My eyes are open as wide as I can manage. "What are you saying?" they say to him.