One’s missing a hind leg, the other an eye. The alligators lie on the spring grass by the lake behind our house. My house now. Their ragged bodies are pressed close together, like an old couple. Homer and Marge, we’d named them. They’ve come here fifteen years in a row. Fifteen mating seasons. Longer than our marriage lasted. He moved out last month to be with Her. I watch Homer and Marge from the back porch. We used to do this together. Two coffee mugs then. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn’t. I used to think our silences were peaceful. I was wrong about that, and probably other things. Homer and Marge haven’t moved all morning. Neither have I. My mug’s empty. The air is stagnant. The lake still. I don’t want to go back inside, where I leave the TV on just to hear other people’s voices. I don’t want to stay out here all day, either, wondering what to do next. I think about picking up a rock and throwing it at the water to get them to move. Do something. Then I do it. The splash startles even me. Homer shifts in the grass, then drags his fat, three-legged torso toward the water and slips beneath the surface. Marge doesn’t move. Her good eye follows him. He resurfaces a few feet out and slowly makes his way back to her side. I’ve seen enough. I grab my mug and go inside. I turn off the TV, walk into the kitchen, and pour more coffee. Out of habit, I reach for a second mug. Then I put it back.
