Jared   by Scotty Williams

He looks down at the jar on the counter before the window behind the kitchen sink. The two bodies inside and the spinach leaf shrunken, jagged and dead, but without decay as if vegetarian jerky. He held it once, rattled it, the exoskeletons pinging against its sides. Touched puncture wounds in the lid she made with his good knife and, realizing his mistake, tried to put it back as she had left it. Impossible.

She had said they are going extinct.

He said they\'ll be back.

She had said not these.

Their offspring.

And he knew what she would say next, but she did not say it. Already won. He didn\'t mind. Loved her when she was right. She had been—sometimes.

About his drinking.

About grasshoppers.

She said she was like them that day and he misunderstood. Thought she was talking about their exoskeletons. It was not a premonition, plans already laid for a moment of weakness—or strength. He knows this. Finds no comfort.

She used his once good knife, the tweaked tip they fought about.

He looks from the window, down to the jar. Wants to hold it again, but how to replace it.

As she had left.