When he first showed me the crescent-shaped rash on his chest, right over his heart, I glanced at it from across the kitchen. My husband was fresh from the mid-summer garden, dripping fresh salty sweat on the floor. I knew better than to come too close, and there was always something. The cactus splinters in his hands, the twig in his eye, his darkened rotting toe. “Feel it!” He didn’t sound too desperate, so I said, “I’m not a doctor.”

That afternoon, I scooped cookie dough. My husband walked in from the garage and pulled off his damp tank top. Even though I’m near-sighted I could see the eruption, now a quarter moon, which covered his chest and protruded at least an inch. I bent down to examine its details, touched it tentatively. Whatever-it-was pulsed in response. I popped the cookies into the oven.

My husband flopped down on the couch and waited to hear from the doctor’s office. I spun the vintage radio dial to find my favorite AM station and twirled my skirt. My husband raised his voice at me. “Turn the music down so we can hear when the doctor calls!” I mouthed him an eff you but shut off the radio and nibbled a cookie.

By six the rash had taken on the appearance of a grizzled and potholed gibbous moon. The medical office phone went to voice mail. At this point, the sight intrigued me. “Is that mold? Why does it throb?” I couldn’t stop looking at it. My husband closed his eyes.

While he slept, I watched the full moon blossom in oxblood and sage streaks across his chest and neck. The growth shuddered, and the moon cracked in half. I expected a deluge of puss, perhaps blood on my beige upholstery. But a pair of tiny gray birds flew from my husband’s chest. I let them out the front door and went upstairs to bed. He could sleep on the sofa tonight, but tomorrow I would offer him a cookie, maybe even two.

– Luanne Castle