Fresh Eggs for Sale

He never answered when she asked him why his art had turned into this. Why welding huge pieces of sheet metal into dinosaurs and giant mosquitoes and waiting for them to become perfectly rusty in the yard next to their house had become his only vehicle of artistic expression.

What was he trying to say?

When he decided to load up his creations and go install them in out of the way fields, atop abandoned railroad cars, posed as if they had naturally congregated in these unlikely spots, she thought it was kind of endearing. Quirky. Quirky was always a good quality. Who wanted a run of the mill kind of husband, a work-a-day guy, leaving with his lunchbox at seven and rolling in at five to mow the lawn, depositing his check in the bank every two weeks and going online late at night to look at houses, saving up to find her just the right house with a view of the lake and a nice kitchen?

She didn’t argue or nag. He never responded. He never took the bait nor answered any question. He shrugged off nagging, usually just flipping down the lens shade of his welding helmet and walking outside where his latest creation lay half-built on its side, a giant robin maybe, or a grasshopper. She never knew what rusty beauty was next in his mind.

Who could know?

People would ask her. She was his wife so they figured she’d know. If anyone would, she could interpret his art, make it make sense to everyone else. Glorify it, elevate it, explain it, praise it, love it.

But she couldn’t. So she left him to himself.