Revealing the Unknown to a Pair of Lovers (MVP) - Softcover

From "Revealing the Unkown to a Pair of Lovers": At night we both have nightmares. We take turns clinging to one another on Rae's waterbed. Me with my sweaty palms one night, her with her noisy breathing another. We're quite a pair and when I hold her, warm and smooth against me as her breathing slows, or cling to her as my own demons vanish, I wonder how I can even imagine ever being without her, when there we are, human and vulnerable under her Miro print. The Beautiful Bird Revealing the Unknown to a Pair of Lovers. I can't see it where it hangs over my head on the wall, but I think of it up there. To me it's just a bunch of bow ties and eyeballs and squiggles, but I like it. It's a beautiful piece of confusion which is much the way I think of these months with Rae. Rae calls the thing a hand-painted dream. It's a comfort to think of us sleeping under it, curling around each other and settling into night.

On Saturday mornings we wander the kitchen stores. Rae loves gadgets and she loves the way I put them to use. She hangs them on her limited kitchen walls, or tucks them into drawers handy to the work space. There isn't a square inch left for another kitchen device. Recently I told her, "We take home one more gadget and there'll be no room for me." First I noticed she didn't laugh, then she changed the subject. I know she buys these things because she has respect for what I do. She thinks I'm an artist and she appreciates the education she's getting about food. I don't like to put on airs but Rae's helped me to see the similarities between a spread of herbs and a palette. Rae pays for the gadgets. "I want to buy you this," she says. Or, when I've paused to admire something, "I want to buy you that." I've made her put things back and told her it's immoral to have everything you want. Then I think of this on the drive home as I admire the tidy clapboard houses along the parkway. On Saturday nights she comes to King's and eats alone at a table I can see from the kitchen. She comes to try the Chef's Creatin which is new every Saturday night. Sometimes I wink at her from over a simmering sauce. If she likes the special she gives me a thumbs up. The deal is, if she points her thumb sideways I never make that dish again. She's never given me a thumbs down.

Revealing the unknown and reminding us of the known seem to be the thrust of Grunke's stories. Although the issues she faces in her stories may be unrealized (or perhaps just unacknowledged) by the average person, there is some quality present that is both familiar because it touches universal emotion and surprisingly fresh because of the straightforwardly way the stories are delivered, which is unexpected. Grunke exposes the difficult issues of a father living a dream through his daughter and dealing with her ever-maturing, womanly physique; a husband's revelation to his wife of his homosexuality; a man and woman's chance meeting, their quick and almost desperate relationship, and their tenuous, if not impossible, future connection; and an aging married couple's confrontation of imminent death and the illuminating power of their love. While these stories contain simple, unadorned (and often uninspiring) prose, they also tackle life's struggles with odd humor, grace, and obviously deep-rooted empathy. Janet St. John