cheated_hearts tender_square the volume was low, too low to actually make out the vocals. the car’s screen flashed the title and artist blatantly though: yeah yeah yeah’s “cheated hearts.” she considered changing the station for a moment, having grown uncomfortable with any cultural nod at infidelity. she feared anything might give her away and didn't wish to risk it for his sake. he was driving, she figured, maybe he wouldn’t notice if she switched it off. but she hadn’t heard the song in years. “show your bones” had been a cd she spun scratched in her ‘91 mustang, windows down as she chain smoked cruising riverside drive, imagining herself to be karen o. she turned the volume up slightly, not quite enough to make it an anthem but enough so she could sing quietly along with it—words renewed with a pang of recognition: “cheated by the opposite of love held on high from up up up above kept my high from the second one kept my eye on the first one now take these rings and stow them safe away” once, she wanted to use the lyrics “sometimes i think i’m bigger than the sound” from this very track to form the epigraph for a chapbook where every poem related to a song that had shaped her—a project idea that never came to fruition though she tried. she still liked the boldness of the statement, karen o’s assertion to lay claim to loudness. the song soundtracked the remainder of their drive home, it’s cold cut hit immediately after he’d put the car in park and turned the ignition off. he didn't speak a word. 211207 ... tender_square he wanted to know where his new book of scandinavian christmas tales went. she pointed to one of several piles of books around their home, she’d put it at the bottom. “why don’t we read one story aloud to one another each night?” she suggested. he flipped through the pages; the stories seemed short enough to manage. it was decided that they would begin that evening. later that night, they nestled with their pajamas on in bed under lamp light. she moved toward his side and lay on her belly, propped up on one arm, listening, her stuffed bunny close beside her. he cleared his throat and began: “the fur coat by hjalmar söderberg. it was a cold winter that year. people looked pinched and shrunken, except of course those who owned fur coats.” his pace was measured, precise. and as she listened to his baritone voice glide like ice skates over each word she wondered if she’d ever heard him speak so much at once before and so gently. she struggled to keep her eyes open; she felt like a child again being read to in this way, it was comforting. in the story, dr. henck was walking down a snowy street and coming to terms with his year. he realizes he is nearing death, and as he crosses an intersection he is struck by a sleigh. he is uninjured, but his coat is ruined. dr. henck had been on the way to see a friend, a fellow physician, dr. richardt, to borrow money. dr. richardt, a wealthy bachelor, would be joining henck’s family for christmas dinner later that evening. when richardt saw the state his friend was in, he offered henck his luxurious fur coat to wear home. as henck wore the coat, he felt like a different man, more successful; he reflected, “my wife has been cold and indifferent to me lately; perhaps she would care for me again if i could earn more money—and if i were dressed in a fur coat.” her mind wandered to him and whether he felt some kinship with henck; lately he’d been saying she’d been short with him, and it was true though infrequent, and she always apologized afterward. but still. turns out richardt had known henck’s wife as a girl, but they had never courted. and when he read this detail aloud, revealing richardt’s first name for the first time in the story, a rush of air filled her ears: it was the same name as her lover. her lover’s name were on her husband’s lips. she remained as still as her stuffed bunny, fearing being seen. he continued to read steadily: “dr. henck was right when he thought his wife would give him a more loving greeting when he was dressed in a fur coat than she did ordinarily.” she knew where the story was heading. she reminded herself to keep breathing. “she nestled close to him in the darkest corner of the hall and put her arms around her neck and kissed him warmly. then she buried her face in his collar and whispered ‘gustaf isn’t at home,’” the wife had mistaken her husband for her lover. at the close of the story, henck thanks richardt for taking care of his wife; richardt tells his friend he his mistaken but henck doesn’t budge: “i am not mistaken. and i want to thank you for lending me your fur coat. it brought me the last happy moments i shall know in this life.” these were the final words of the tale. a moment of silence passed between them, quiet as snowfall. “well, that was a depressing story,” she said. “i thought this book would be more uplifting.” she took the book from his hands and scanned the table of contents, saw two of her favorite fairy tales that always devastated her to read, “the little match girl” and “the brave tin solider.” he grabbed his laptop and went online searching for a copy of “a christmas carol” that they could pick up from an area bookshop for the following day instead. 211209 what's it to you? who go blather from