A man with blue eyes has come into the room, she reasons demurely, for she glimpses only the barest hints of a squarish jaw and sharp nose in the reflection off the beady black eye of the toy, not enough to define or remember the person behind those cobalt orbs. She’s not –him-, after all.
The rabbit jiggles again, bouncing across her vision, again. Obscuring her view again.
Now she is concerned.
Her eyebrows furrow lower, tumbling down and down by degrees to her heightened nerves, each line of hair settling at a wobble like the unstable planes of an inauspicious dreidel.
“It’s not time yet, Pond; still, if push comes to shove, I’d rather you push…” her husband says, thrumming a strangely sweaty thumb over her temples as though he’s polishing a doll. “With any luck, you’ll be seeing me before the start of the second inning.”
Even now, she feels like a child with a fever when he does that.
“Sweetie, have you had your hands in your pockets? They’re awfully war- ooh!” She tries to speak louder, but her breath dies in her throat, stolen by stringy lengths of uterine stria as they knead themselves like dough in the bowl of her pelvis.
“Ah, so it comes to this…” she hears him say it so softly to the man who has come inside their little hospital room hideaway, with that same youthful voice reminiscent of a fish with a head cold- he always uses that tone when he’s being dangerous. She quite likes it, but for some reason, now it… only sounds sad. She’s used to him reproaching himself, but… this seems like a moment from an old movie about spies.