MicroHorror

Hiram woke up cold. He was glad he had slept at all: the last two months, his wife of 45 years Nancy had been in the hospital, trying to get better. Hiram just couldn’t sleep in a bed by himself. He spent the days groggy and weeping for what might be his wife’s demise, yet at night, with no one else on the mattress, he was wide awake. When his wife came home a couple of weeks ago, the relief of her not being up in the oncology ward was dwarfed by Hiram’s need to rest. He had slept extraordinarily well since then, a full six or seven hours every night. It gave him the energy during the day to take care of things he had put off: pay the bills, clean up, make supper. But now Hiram was cold. One more thing to take care of. He got up, went over to Nancy’s side of the bed, and turned on her electric blanket. She could absorb a lot of heat out of the bed. He sprinked a few more of her potpourri flowers on her face, and gave her body a spray of her favorite perfume. It still wasn’t a wonderful smell, but it was Nancy’s smell, and he loved everything about her. Especially the security he gave her, letting her sleep. In another week or two, he’d even be strong enough to start telling the family than Nancy only lasted a day after she came home to die.