Milk Bread

From HEALING BONE STORIES: In this domestic drama, an inarticulate married couple in crisis transform their relationship through their own unique way of not being able to talk.

	That morning, the first thing Seiji did upon waking was turn onto his side in the bed to study his wife. She always slept with her long hair in a net to protect it from the pressure of her head on the pillow. She had read in The Ladies Home Journal that this protected against breakage. She had taken this advice to her heart though white American women dominated the magazine’s pages with bright smiles, erect backs and smooth updos. Josie’s hair was frizzy.
	The American women often appeared in the company of other American women or by themselves, rarely with their husbands or children. This gave them an enviable air of purpose and independence. Less visible, Japanese women appeared on the society pages graciously receiving American generosity or guiding the American women to the kimono or flower arranging. Josie was Filipino.
	After five mornings contemplating the conundrum of his wife, Seiji could still spot no difference from what he usually saw — Josie slept in a hairnet and breathed heavy. He was trying to divine why they had become so light and brittle, as if they were the last two breadsticks left in a cardboard box. A little pressure and they might shatter into pieces.
	He blamed himself for his own uncertain state of mind, reflected in a repeating dream of the past five nights. He took this to be a symptom of a psychological ailment, for it was unusual for him to remember his dreams. Each night, the same woman had appeared. Her face and form were always vague yet imparted perfection. She posed no mystery at all to Seiji, who felt he understood her completely, but after each encounter, he had woken in a state of irritation and with his mind mired in useless thoughts he did not wish to think.
	“You can’t forget something that never happened,” he reasoned to himself. But what was he remembering? He didn’t know.
	On that particular morning in Tokyo, the early sun was breaking low across a layer of snow five inches deep that had secretly lain during the night on every exposed surface of the city.
	“What?”
	Seiji spoke more loudly than he had intended after noticing the delicate difference in colour of the light in the bedroom.
	Josie stirred and lifted her head.
	“What is it?” she asked sleepily.
	“It snowed.”