Blonde wife and clean husband eat a picnic, no eye contact, with a strict line down the middle of the blanket: his side and her side. Blonde wife is primary colors with yellow hair, red lips, blue dress. Clean husbands glistens, pink-faced with fat little cheeks that boyishly whisper "I can take care of you." Blonde wife takes the almonds out of her salad one by one and places them discreetly on her tongue like ecstasy tablets. Her ribcage is still, her pearl necklace never goes up and down. Her little mouth is tight and clean husband doesn't know how shallowly she's breathing. He doesn't know much about animals at all. They look incredibly sad and still against the too-green grass and I want one of them to move or say something strange and unexpected. I want a bee to string blonde wife's secretive tongue. I want clean husband to cry suddenly and turn as red as blonde wife's lips. More than anything, I want to see blonde wife suck in a big fat ugly breath and exhale loudly and full of implications of boredom, frustration, the pain of forced stillness. I want to hear her teeth violently crushing the almonds and then I want her to cough, make any sort of sound. Her little hands move through the air over and over from the salad bowl to her mouth but there's no auditory proof that she's alive. I hope she has a cheap tattoo somewhere on her back that he disapproves of. I hope she growls like a dog at him when he criticizes her potato salad. I hope they've broken expensive glass wear in each other's presence.