Companionship

 David and Gilda had been living in the same two bedroom home for the last five years. Of those five years they had been married for four of them, kept two cats for three of them, and been miserable in each others company for five of them. They both worked during the day and spent their evenings together entertaining themselves in the usual way.

It was David's turn to cook supper and, like every night before, he made it from a can. Tonight would be a chicken barley night. David poured the broth into a pot and set it heat with his cigarette lighter. Last week Gilda had thrown out the bills along with David's mail. They were now embroiled in a protracted game of chicken over who would be the first pay to turn the utilities back on. The still-cold soup was served in the dining room by candle light, a candle Gilda has used not minutes ago to pour wax into the pockets of David's favorite pair of jeans, and the couple ate in silence.

With supper over they settled into the living room and sat together on the couch. A communal seat had long since been considered much safer then any chair they might favor alone. Tacks, various liquids, and dead vermin had a way of finding rest there. The candle also made the journey from the dining room. Both David and Gilda had taken up reading in front of their silent television set, the candle in it's holder nestled somewhere between them threatening to burn clothes, paper, and skin alike. Neither of them could think of a way to make their time together more pleasant.

When the light finally ran down they both retired to their separate bed rooms. They had tried sleeping together but found that waiting for the other to strike made it more trouble then it was worth. So Gilda side stepped the safety pins lying in the floor next to her bed and David flipped his mattress to avoid the unknown stain left on his sheets. Apart they drifted into slumber, thinking about when the water would be turned off and just how much the other would suffer for it.