The Octopus Who Dismembered Love

After ‘Incarnations of Burned Children’ by David Foster Wallace

The half-chewed octopus lay like a tumour on the gold-rimmed dinner plates between them. A stark contrast to the man’s wife who was now blue and frantically pointing to her throat. He threw his chair back, knocking the next table’s champagne to the floor; thick chunks of ice crunching under his feet. A chef in his dirty apron came running and clasped the woman around her stomach, and when she shook her head, he brought his hands in tighter. One of the waiters swore the octopus had been dead when he set it down, but the state of life wasn’t important at that moment. Various diners gawked on, napkins still tucked into the rims of their shirts. When asked if a medical professional was present, bullets of silence ricocheted off the walls. The man’s wife had torn at her dress in that unique desperation of trying to regain the ability to breathe. Her breasts were now exposed—full of veiny scratches, freshly baked. The husband and the chef took turns in karate chopping at her back. Still nothing had cleared. Yet again the audience had nothing to offer—no urgency, no experience. The woman’s dress was halfway down her body, cloaked in spilled wine and bits of pasta from other tables. The waiter was on the phone with emergency services—hands flapping and gesturing to his own throat. A diner sauntered over with a glass of water to pour into her windpipe. Clambering through the tiny doorway came the medical team who threw the woman into the ambulance. The husband tried to clean the blood spatter from the tablecloth, pouring champagne on the corner and dabbing away. When the taxi came, he sat in the back with their belongings. In her clutch bag was the same vial of perfume she’d worn when they first met. The driver asked what football team he supports, but he could only respond in groans. At the hospital, the nurses fed him shortbread through mentions of “brain damage” and “life-support”. His wife had lots of pipes attached to her. When he sat in the chair, one of the legs broke. The restaurant called to say that the octopus had definitely been dead when they served it, and that they could have their next five visits for free. Nurses and doctors flew in and out like butterflies merging into one. He picked glass from his rubber sole, pulling papers from his coat pocket. As the hospital lights flickered, he read the terms of their divorce. He was to have custody of their two ragdolls, the tesla, and the holiday home they shared. After reading the last word, the husband noticed a small cut of octopus in a sample pot by her bedside—shredded red dress folded underneath. When the horizon flattened, a dozen medical staff flooded the room. The husband left the papers at reception, between the glass of pens and sterile gloves. As he left the hospital, he removed his wedding ring, crushing it into the ground like a rotted down cigarette butt. When a nurse came to ask for the husband of the woman who choked, there was no answer; only the silhouette of a man passing through.

By Courtenay Schembri Gray