5.

“This is the sound of a television blurring all the oxygen right out of the room,” the mother said as she casually glanced at father, a man mid forties, smoking his third cigar of the evening. Their young boy Jasper sat on the carpet in front of the tube, half watching the news show on the screen, half playing an imaginary game with his fingers, the air shadows of a setting sun, and occasionally with the dog who ran through the room.
“Hmmm” father said. He took a long small drag on the cherry smoked tobacco. 

She wanted to scream. But she ironed the blue dress shirt, its uneven levels of remaining fabric pressed between steam and a squeaky board, with no verbal complaint.

Mother bit into Fathers neck late that night. A small bite, one of affection and hate. It did not pierce the skin but made him turn his head slightly. He grimaced a little as he moved her hair to the side of her head. His breath still carried the smell of tobacco. She never thought about how unusual it was for her husband to smoke. No one else did anymore. But he was her husband, and she knew very little about him anyways. 

They met on a plane, a journey to one of the newly freed areas . When you disembarked from these flights the customs agents would steal your money, but it was an accepted practice. The cost of flying the friendly skies. He smiled at her then, at least that was how she remembered it. He had taken her hand and walked her through the turnstile past a pretzel stand onto the cold icy tundra of Scanton, Pennsylvania that day. It was a choice, one she made willingly and a few months later they were married. Later they moved into the red brick house, identical to all the others on the street. 

Sometimes, she knew that Father kept things from her.  

He held her neck tightly as he made love to her then.  She thought of the pretzel stand they had passed years ago and wondered if they tasted as good as they smelled.