“It’s just my gut,” he grunts, staring at me while slathering grape jelly on his toast, then licking the knife, both sides. He’s nonchalant like this, Bill is, every time he comes back from the doctor’s. I scowl at the purple blob quivering on the white shirt I just finished ironing for him, dab at it with a moistened paper towel. “One little suture. Piece of cake,” he adds. Crumbs are sticking to his lips as he glowers. “Now don’t go leaping out the window!”

The last few times Bill mumbled something was just a scratch or a bump or some such, we found ourselves scrambling on long, steep, windy roads to recovery. Left to guess, I veer to the dark side. Nights, I toss and turn in bed and punch my pillows as I envision Bill’s membranes and organs warping or hopping around like fleas. I anticipate resigning my job to mop Bill’s brow, to rush sloshing bedpans to the toilet and untangle a Medusa of tubing. I’ll be fretting and pacing and moaning over bills piling up on the hallway table, the electricity turned off, a foreclosure notice pinned to the door, me resorting to jumping out a window even though I’m afraid of heights.

This time, I’ll conjure myself atop a tall building with lots of glass, a concrete monstrosity housing hedge fund companies and dodgy attorneys. No plummeting from the relative safety of our ramshackle, mortgaged-to-the-hilt, split-level brick ranch with its weed-studded yard. And when I stand teetering on the ledge of the 34th floor, passersby will gather on the sidewalk below, look up and rub their necks. When I land, they’ll grimace and say things like “Pity!” and “Ouch!” I’ll rise bit by bit from the puddle of me and dust myself off. Then, like in some feel-good group therapy trust-building session, I’ll close my eyes and let myself tip backwards into the outstretched arms of well-meaning strangers. They’ll swaddle me in the finest cotton, carry me home and spoon-feed me soup crowded with dumplings.

Bio: Mikki Aronoff