Scarce by Maria Romaniuk

Bertram prided himself on being a remarkably disciplined man.

Life’s essence, he had discovered, was almost insidiously simple: it lay not in the search of a greater purpose, not in the abolition of evil, individual or global; life’s essence, plain and unpretentious as a pebble, lay in careful mundanity, in the rhythmic rumble of existence. His routine was an architectural marvel, established and nurtured within the papered walls of his bungalow. He would rise at six thirty in the morning, to the deep blue glow of the retreating night, and consume three slices of honeyed toast. Margaret had hated that habit of his. Three slices of honeyed toast trod the very limit of reason. The bees, she'd announce with a pointed urgency,  are scarce these days. She relished in that word, scarce. It scraped against the roof of her mouth like a strange metallic plate. Bertram would wince at the brazen smugness of this statement, but that was not the worst of all. One evening, he could bear the offense no longer.

“You can't say scarce.”

“What?”

This had put to the test the last vestiges of Bertram's patience. Fifty-six is awfully young to be hard of hearing, is it not? She is testing him for sure, getting the best of him. It's a hobby of hers, provoking her dutiful husband just for an excuse to tarnish his upstanding name before the wretched kettle of vultures that are her friends. Her friends, those hedonists, those philistines.

Committing the Herculean feat of restraint, he had kept civil.

“You can't say scarce about bees.”

“Really?”

“Bees are not a resource; it's a non-collocated sentence, what you just used, it sounds unnatural, it sounds odd, and it is driving me insane how insistent you are on being utterly wrong, and so brazen about it at that, I honestly cannot even begin to fathom how you are not the least bit ashamed of broadcasting your foolishness to the world like that, and for the love of God, would you stop badgering me about my eating habits, your hyporcisy is glaring and impossible to bear any longer, you police my honey intake while you yourself- you-”

Bertram had halted, his lungs drained of all air. This is where bad company gets you, he had lamented, it sucks the life out of you.

“You know, I think I'm gonna go for a walk”.

Was this all she had to say to the great outpouring of his soul? Wordlessly, he had watched her gather up her things, in brisk, rehearsed motions, way too ambitiously for a quick stroll. When she fluttered out into the crisp March air, it was half past six.