"The desk-spider and the door-spider eyed them proudly." -James Tate, from Memoir of the Hawk

Rules

I woke up one morning, and something was definitely wrong. Nothing smelled, and my breath wasn’t the usual bad morning breath. I stared at my wife. Good morning, soldier she said. Sarg, I think there’s something wrong, something off with this morning I said. That’s not important, soldier, get out of bed she said. I got up and out of bed and immediately felt light-headed and almost fainted. The colors in our room were turning from a few shades darker to a few shades lighter, back and forth. I stood as straight as I could. Don’t slouch she said. Morning physical training she said, and I got down to my hands and feet and began doing push-ups. After only a few, I collapsed onto my chest, my ears ringing. What’s wrong with you she said. Remember your breathing she said. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Your breathing she repeated. I’ve never heard of anything like that ever before I said. My wife kicked me in the side. Don’t mouth off to me like that, soldier she said. Now, breath she said. I don’t know I said. Breath she said. How I said. She inhaled and exhaled deeply. I opened my mouth wide, like a half yawn, and the pressure in my ears normalized. No, you’re doing it wrong she said. I’m doing what wrong I said. She kicked me in my side again. I knew this because I saw her foot swing, and my body moved, but I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t feel my lower extremities anymore. I didn’t feel my upper extremities anymore. I didn’t feel my ribs, or anything within them, for that matter. Breath, damnit she said. I rolled onto my back. Whatever that is, if I knew it before, I’ve forgotten it now I said. Oscar, please, honey, just breath she said. She knelt down beside me and struck me in the chest. I started to do sit-ups.