It is evening. My husband has fallen asleep on the couch. His mouth wide open. I wonder what would happen if I roll a marble into his oesophagus.
A thought like that is immoral, I think. But still I wonder what would happen if I roll a marble into his oesophagus. So, lets imagine this. Afterwards I shall decide whether imagining things are the same as doing them.
I stand up and walk to my little daughter. She is playing Twister with her little feet and hands and arms and legs in a knot. She looks like a smashed spider with trembling limbs.
I say: ‘Where do you keep your marbles, honey?’
‘In daddy’s oesophagus,’ she answers.
Okay, this is where life gets stuck between fantasy and reality. No it isn’t. It never was reality to begin with. It wasn’t a dream either, but just a thought. So it got stuck in this story. Although that smashed spider over there says she keeps her marbles in the oesophagus of her father, this doesn’t mean a thing. I am the writer here. I can make her say anything I want. So let me ask her again.
‘Baby, where do you keep your marbles?’
‘I have no marbles left. Go look in daddy’s shit.’
I am sorry. This is in fact the problem with me. If I have something in my mind I don’t feel like ignoring it. So from here we must go on. We do know now that the marbles are in fact in the oesophagus of my husband. I didn’t roll any of them inside his open mouth so he must have eaten them all. That is too bad, but still I have the marbles where I want them.
Would he eat them if he didn’t like marbles in his oesophagus?