The Paper Husband
The process had seemed slow at first. This was before it was a process, before the couple had decided this was something to document, to worry over. One morning, Jon’s husband simply woke up shorter. They stood together at the bathroom sink, staring into the mirror at each other, as they had done for many mornings. Where they had previously been evenly matched in height, Jon now noticed his husband standing nearly a head shorter. The pair stared at each other in that mirror, noticing a tangible difference from where they had begun. His husband had not panicked, simply rolled up his shirt sleeves and pant legs and left for work. So, Jon had taken his husband’s pride as gospel, as he had learned to do so many times before, and let their day continue.
He continued to shrink over the coming weeks, until his minimized stature began to draw too much attention, and he was forced to leave his job. They could manage financially. After all, his husband now ate significantly less, and being self-conscious about his condition, their nights of outings and entertainment had come to a stop. His husband spent his days on their couch, sometimes lost in the luxurious oversized cushions he loved a year ago, searching for answers on his computer about his ailment. When Jon suggested that they see a doctor, his husband became agitated, angry at the thought of anyone seeing him. Jon let him shrink and shrink until he could hold his husband in his hands like a doll.
After a few more weeks, his skin began to freckle. It darkened in some spots, and in those spaces between, becoming translucent and grey. Jon woke every morning to find less and less of his husband. He would wake and stare at the small, curved indent in the bed beside him and will his eyes to focus on this shadowing thing that lay there. By this point, his husband spent most days sleeping, finding it too difficult to live a life and finding himself too vain to ask for assistance. He continued to refuse to see a doctor, until Jon lost him. Jon searched their bed for hours, carefully removing each layer of their pristine bedding, their organic waffle duvet and crisp linen sheets, searching for a tiny man made of paper. Jon found nothing, no trail or evidence of the man his husband had been or become. He must have shrunk himself out of existence, Jon thought, as he climbed back into their made bed and fell asleep.
Two days later, Jon found the moth delicately placed in the center of his husband’s pillow. It looked exactly as his husband had, with dark markings across a grey-white frame. Jon picked him up, holding him lightly across his four fingers. He peered at him closely, hoping to see some resemblance. Jon could not see his curly hair or dark eyes, but a moth arrives in the space of your shrinking husband, who else could it be?
Jon had heard of this happening to other men, usually husbands, all across town. Over a span of a few months, men were slowly changing, until they were unrecognizable. The postwoman’s husband could not stop growing thick, coarse hair across his body, until she found a racoon sitting on her kitchen counter. Janice from the good boat rental company was driven hysterical, so certain that the deer she had hit with her car on a street near her house had been her long-term boyfriend. Tragically, last fall, one of the teachers from Haven Middle was found dead with a boa constrictor wound around her body, no husband to be found. Her friends and family were reported to have said that she had shared concerns of her husband’s new cold touch and intense height gain. Nothing offered a clear explanation to this phenomenon. No scientists weighed in; no experts emerged. Jon had once asked his mother about it, and she had simply shrugged, said things happen, and Jon imagined a new shape for the father he had never known. A few months ago, Jon had overheard a colleague say this only happened to women who needed their husbands to become something else, who could not love them fully as they were. Jon had wondered who was to blame in that reasoning. Later, Jon would do his own research and find no documentation of this occurring in same sex partners or of any men turning into insects, in town or anywhere else. He wondered if he should have shared his story, if people needed to know. How many husbands had changed with no news coverage, no spotlight? How many people lost their husbands, and found no way for anyone to share in their grief and loss? Jon couldn’t find anyone to speak to about this. Anyone this had happened to, anyone who might have lost something this way, they either left town or they weren’t the same people. After she hit the deer, Janice would routinely be found running naked through the woods on the northside of town, until finally her sisters put her in a care facility. Jon considered going to visit her, but he could never figure out what he wanted to ask.
Jon cried quietly, holding the moth slightly away as to not drown him. He did not know how to look at him. His head was so small and dark, he could not discern between eyes and exoskeleton. His wings were wrinkled, and he moved slowly, stretching his impossibly miniscule legs across Jon’s fingers.
With his husband having no way to protest, Jon was free to seek a doctor’s advice. He carried his husband down to the kitchen and set him gently on the counter. He watched the moth steady himself on his legs beneath him, and turn slowly to watch Jon as he rummaged through their cupboards for something to transport his husband in. He settled finally on a small metal tin, with an intricate floral design that left many small holes on the sides and top. Inside were stamps and stickers, and Jon wondered silently where this particular object had come from in their lives. Neither of them sent any mail, they had no one to write to. Why have this for any reason beyond this unthinkable one? Jon offered his hand again to the moth, who climbed on gently, before Jon placed him in the small tin. His husband fluttered in agitation, finally becoming recognizable, and Jon said I know, I’m sorry before placing the lid on top.
Jon figured a medical doctor was out of the question at this point and drove towards the small university forty-five minutes out of town. He called ahead and, after a series of holds and transfers, found an entomologist who would meet him in her office when he arrived. Jon parked and grabbed the tin, thought for the first moment that maybe he had not needed to close the lid on this box that held his husband, but thought it safer that way.
The entomologist showed neither concern nor frustration to see Jon in her doorway holding the small tin. Jon stood in between the two spaces for many moments, realizing he had not once considered what he would say to this woman, to this expert. Finally, he opened the tin and placed it on the desk and kindly asked if the entomologist could classify this insect and tell him everything she knew about it. The entomologist cheerfully asked if he was a bug enthusiast, to which Jon answered not particularly, and he could have sworn he heard an agitated flutter in the tin.
The entomologist held open her right hand, and with the other, gently lifted the tin and turned out the moth into her palm. Jon stamped down the urge to tell this expert to be careful, to not squeeze her hand too hard, whatever his husband had become was too new and too fragile to be handled indelicately.
Holding his husband up to her eye level, the entomologist quickly concluded that it was a peppered moth, a common species found all over the world. Jon watched as she fawned over the moth, taking out tiny magnifying glasses and waving them just above its form. Jon stood still, watching silently as the entomologist kept talking about the peppered moth, mating techniques, various forms and their names, its evolution as an example of population genetics and natural selection.
Jon possessed no way to tell this kind woman that he was not interested in the evolutionary studies of this particular moth, seeing as how it was his husband who, through some inexplicable phenomenon, had become said moth. He simply asked how long do they live?
About a year, the entomologist replied, unaware of the weight of her answer, still focused on the insect in her hand. This one seems to have just emerged from its pupa stage. Its wings look to still be drying.
Although the entomologist seemed still very much engaged in the illogical moth she now held, Jon thanked her for her time, which he realized all in all had been less than ten minutes. He wanted to ask if she knew of any cases of men turning into moths, or perhaps even someone turning into a butterfly or a cricket, but found he lacked either the vocabulary or the strength to pose such a question. He took back his tin with the moth safely returned, and exited the office before becoming overwhelmed with deep, painful, silent sobs. Holding the tin in his shaking hands, he wondered if his husband was experiencing this alongside him, or if he had lost him many weeks ago.
Jon returned home and put his husband back on the counter. He sat there, in the kitchen that they had just been remodeled last spring and watched over the moth all day. He conceded that his husband was correct, that the wood stain Jon had picked out for the cabinets had been too bright for the afternoon sun. The pair of them sat, squinting at one another, watching the day trail its way through their windows. By dusk, his husband’s wings had dried out, and he fluttered around their house, casting large shadows across empty rooms.
The moth seemed to be able to take care of himself. Jon did not know what to do with a moth, did not know what to feed them, if they needed cleaning or stimulation. He woke every morning to find the moth dutifully resting on the pillow beside him. He would return home from work and his husband would be winging around the front rooms. Jon would observe his husband’s flight patterns, and when the moth rested on the counter or the table, he would closely inspect the moth for any signs of change. He told himself maybe this was temporary, and that his husband would one day return, full-bodied and wingless. He imagined himself coming through their front door to find his husband cooking in the kitchen, twirling in a room filled with dirty mixing bowls and pans, or seated on the couch, his body tucked gently in the corner, peering over a book. He imagined how his husband would notice him, look up and take in Jon’s wide eyes and agape mouth, and fill their home with his rowdy and robust laughter.
On bad days, Jon refused to believe the moth was his husband at all, questioning instead that maybe his husband had simply gone away, to give Jon peace from his shrinking life. But the moth stayed, and hovered around Jon, just as his husband had.
Eventually, Jon became used to the moth. He no longer felt compelled to check on him all the time and would only notice him in the corner of things: his eyes, their rooms, nestled in the frames of doors. He sometimes would go days without seeing him, just long enough for panic to sit in his throat again, only to finally find him resting on the spine of a book or around the base of a wine glass.
Jon thought fondly of their life before this. He and his husband had been an easy couple, slipping into each other’s lives with set routines and distinct boundaries. Jon remembered good times, laughing hysterically over wine at superfluous restaurants or drifting off to sleep on their couch, halfway through the movie they both desperately wanted to see. The bad times swelled out of memory, becoming so large they could not be witnessed. Jon had been intentional not to forget the ways in which his husband had wronged him, but now looked back and questioned his reaction, whatever silly punishment he had doled out. Jon never considered talking to the moth, found it easier to just sit and think and watch his husband glide around the room. He believed on some level that his husband was a part of this internal conversation, that the dust the moth left around the room were his own remarks, his own remember-whens, his own ached sighs calling out to a time before.
It was a few more months before he started to miss the sex. At first, he was incredibly removed from the idea of sex with his husband’s past self. He judged himself for missing his husband’s body, where it had fit and pushed up against him. He loved this husband, papery and silent as he was. Once, perhaps twice, he thought about sex with the moth. Even researched peppered moth mating practices, before exasperatedly criticizing his own ridiculousness. He stuck to masturbation, at first closing the door, stuffing a towel under the frame, an embarrassing return to his pubescent self. It was difficult to finish knowing that, in the end, he was hiding masturbation from his husband. He would continue to masturbate with the door open, though he found the moth often took no interest.
Once, six weeks from the end, the moth flew into Jon’s face as he rounded the corner into their bedroom. Jon instinctually swatted it away, catching the top of moth with the cup of his hand. He let out a yelp and dropped to the ground where the moth had landed. Jon, who had not inspected the moth for weeks, saw no signs of damage. His wings were intact, his body solid. Jon whispered no no no no no no no no over his little husband and lifted him to the top of their dresser. The moth was still and remained so all night. In the morning, Jon woke, and the moth was gone. He found him sitting on the coffee table in their living room, and as Jon approached him, the moth extended his wings and flew on to another room. Jon let him leave, whispering an apology to that empty space. He and the moth would stay apart for almost two weeks.
Jon selfishly was relieved that he had not seen his husband much in between man and moth. He had seen him small, and he had seen him thin, but he was grateful that he had not seen his tiny back crack open with papery wings or watched his legs multiply across his abdomen. He imagined his bones pushing themselves outward, flattening, extending, becoming the hard shell of a moth. He was certain if he had seen that, he may have never known the moth, that it would have been impossible to share their home this way. Jon would never know where his husband had been in those two missing days before the moth’s arrival, and that may be what saved him from all of this.
When Jon had told his husband about his friend from college, he had left. They were in the same house then, though the kitchen was not yet remodeled, and they had an older couch with older pillows. Jon sat across the table from his husband and wept and apologized and begged and pleaded and his husband had looked into him with darker eyes than Jon had ever seen and said nothing. His husband stood from the table, walked calmly upstairs, and returned with a duffle bag. He left, no words, no glances, no moments to regret. Jon sat at the table all night in silence. When it got dark, he left the lights off, to serve as penance or sympathetic justice.
His husband was gone for two weeks. Jon did not hear from him, and Jon did not try to contact his husband either. When he returned, he said they would not speak about it, and move on. His husband never asked if it was over (it was) or if it meant anything (it hadn’t) or if he still loved him (he did). He never offered where he had gone or whom he had told. Jon knew this was a new husband, one who needed him less but could not survive entirely without him.
Jon let the moth keep his distance for a while. At this point, his husband had stopped sleeping in their bed, and would be difficult to find in the mornings. Occasionally, Jon would see him blur by in the afternoon. Jon began to spend less time at home, rejoined the gym he had quit shortly after his husband’s transformation. He ate out alone at nice restaurants. He went to see movies and attended art galleries. He stumbled into old friends, who delightfully never asked after his husband. He saw for himself a life without the moth, one that was not delicate or closed.
He eventually became frustrated that he was the one who had to make space for the moth. It was Jon’s house after all. The moth paid no bills, cleaned no counters, bought no groceries; why should Jon be the one exiled from his home? He began entertaining again. Old friends came over with wine and cheese, and they played silly games and gossiped about people and did people things. Jon never explained away his husband’s notable absence, and his guests never asked. If anyone noticed the moth, either spread out against a window or perched silently on the bookcase, they said nothing. He invited more people and held bigger parties and his house swelled again. His pantry was stocked with water crackers and pepper jam, and their wine rack was full of robust, syrupy reds. Jon became suffocated by the emptiness, filling his house with new people most nights of the week. At some point during these parties, he stopped looking for the moth, and would startle whenever he did see him.
At one party, with coworkers that Jon frankly did not like that much, he noticed their receptionist’s husband looked a little odd. His face looked more angular than usual, his mouth jutted out further than it should, almost like the bottom half of his face was growing into a beak. When they left, earlier than the rest, Jon gave the receptionist a longer hug, an embrace that knew something. When she pulled away, she smiled with anxious eyes. Jon did not see them at his parties anymore.
At the last party, Jon had invited more people than ever before. He invited the entire block of their neighborhood, everyone at work, even some stranger-like acquaintances he ran into running errands. As Jon flitted around the house, cleaning up, the moth followed closely behind. It made its way into every room, keeping mind to stay out of reach. Jon had become accustomed to swatting at his husband when he came too close. Not enough to hurt him again, but enough to disorient the moth, to stagger him in air. Jon refused to acknowledge him, determined to fill himself again with company and drinks and food.
The party was the best one Jon had ever thrown. Everyone he ran into raved about the spread of food, what incredible wine, what fantastic music. Jon laughed at perfect conversation, won fun little games, and joined in rousing rounds of karaoke. The moth was nowhere to be seen. If Jon had considered him, he probably would have thought he was just hiding in their bedroom, or on top of a high shelf. But Jon did not consider him. Parties were no place for moths. Neither were homes or beds.
The party was in full swing when the friend from college arrived. He said he had been passing through, heard about it through some mutual friends, and decided to just show up. Jon was surprised and then thrilled to see him, got a glass of wine in his hand quickly, and the two enjoyed the party as one. They meandered through the crowds, not asking questions or catching up. They made old jokes and told embarrassing stories. Had we ever been so young? Jon asked.
The party died down, and the friend from college stayed by Jon’s side. Jon said goodbye to everyone, thanked them for coming, offered a standing invitation for any one of them to return another night. When the home held just Jon and the friend from college, there was very little preamble. There was nothing to discuss. They fell into Jon’s bed quickly, diving into each other as full people, no emptiness to fill, only bodies to share.
In the morning, the friend from college was gone. Jon had not needed him to stay. He would see him again; there would be future parties. Jon sat at the dining table, black coffee burning in his hands, where he noticed a crumpled napkin, white with dark wine spots. He realized then that he had not seen the moth all night. Even at his busiest parties, he would normally see him dart between light fixtures or sheltered beneath their tv. From their dining table, Jon could see into both the living room and kitchen. The party remained in the space, echoing horribly into Jon’s hungover head. There were glasses and cups everywhere, napkins and tiny paper plates resting on almost every surface. Jon began to search the house for the moth. After an hour, he began to panic. He cleaned room after room, lifting every piece of trash expecting to find what remained of his husband. Finally, he had cleaned the whole house. Jon offered that perhaps the moth had flown away. There was plenty of opportunity, with people coming and going.
Jon sat back down and sipped what remained of his cold coffee, letting his pounding head subside. From above, the moth fluttered from where it was hidden in the chandelier over the dining table. He landed perfectly on the back of Jon’s hand and crawled lightly to sit atop Jon’s simple wedding band. Jon had not even noticed that he still wore it. He had not taken it off once since he lost his husband. The moth perched himself perfectly on the top of Jon’s ring finger. Jon lifted his hand to admire the moth. He felt those dark eyes on him, even if he could not locate them on his small moth head. He thought, with the way the moth was positioned, he could have made the most intricately beautiful piece of jewelry. Jon considered what it would be like to wear something that made a statement like that, to be someone so elegant and macabre, how heavy his hand would feel to wear something like this. In one quick motion, Jon crushed the moth between his hands, slipped off his wedding ring, and washed away the last of him.
Coby-Dillon English (he/she/they) is a writer from the Great Lakes. An enrolled member of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, they currently are an MFA fiction student and Henry Hoyns Fellow at the University of Virginia, where they teach creative writing and serve as the nonfiction editor for Meridian. Their work can be found/is forthcoming in LitHub and Salt Hill Journal.
