by Edwin Dasso
Across the living room, Clara Wilson—the woman I had shared my life with for over fifteen years, who occupied my thoughts nearly every waking moment, the same woman who had made my heart stop the minute I first saw her—continued her tirade. I tuned out again. She’d keep going for at least another ten minutes. I stared at the TV, the images flickering across the screen but not registering in my brain. Any chance of an enjoyable evening watching the highlights of yesterday’s cricket match had gone. I had wanted to watch it live, but she had put a stop to that. I had to spend time with her, give her my full attention—at least, she didn’t say that exactly, but it’s what she meant. She had a clever way with words that always caught me out. I could never win. I tried, many times, but recently, I increasingly just gave in. It was the lesser of two evils. I was like a prisoner faced with a choice—twenty lashes over in ten minutes or six months in solitary confinement. Neither prospect was attractive, but at least one was over quickly.
I nodded and grunted, showing I was listening. God forbid if she thought I was ignoring her, although once she was on a rant, there was no stopping her, whether or not I paid attention.
Despite my defense mechanisms, the resignation, the hard protective shell I had built around me, created piece by piece as she hurled accusations at me, it still hurt. I tried not to let it affect me, but every word, every barb, every accusation, was another arrow fired into my withering heart.
Was this the same person I had lived with for most of my adult life? What happened to her? I looked up at her again, my subconscious realizing she had said something about me doing nothing in front of the TV. Getting up from the sofa, I wandered across the living room and stood next to the open kitchen. I forced myself to listen to what she was saying, to find out the underlying cause of the latest outburst.
She was still beautiful—tall and slim, with a finely featured face and eyes that used to twinkle with mischief—but right now, the edges of her mouth curled in an ugly twist, and her cheeks flushed red. I couldn’t see her eyes since she refused to look at me. She banged a cupboard door and slammed a pot down on the kitchen countertop, all the while a continuous stream of accusations and invective continued to pour from her mouth—a mouth I had kissed, soft lips that had given me so much pleasure. I looked at them now. They quivered with rage, and a spray of saliva was caught in the light as she made yet another accusation.
She was talking about something I had done seven years ago or was it eight? I can’t remember... it doesn’t matter. I studied her lips, focusing on them rather than the words flowing out of them. Would I still kiss them? Was I actually asking myself the question? She delivered another barb, this one finally piercing the armor I had painfully constructed. The barb wasn’t true, not in its entirety, but that didn’t matter. It was based on a truth, and that was all she needed. All she needed to introduce a seed of doubt—a doubt of my position in things.
Maybe I was wrong? Maybe I was always at fault? Maybe the entire problem was me? Perhaps I really was the cause of all the unhappiness, the sole reason for the decline of a relationship that had once provided so much joy. I shook off the thoughts.
No, that’s what she did. It was her evil superpower. That’s what she wanted me to believe—that I was at fault—but she was wrong. I wasn’t a bad person. I was a good person, and I was going to kill her.
2
I’d been thinking about it for a while. No, not thinking, fantasizing. At first, it was an idle thought, quickly suppressed. How could anyone think of taking another human’s life, let alone the woman they have shared their life with? It was wrong, but as the weeks wore on—as the arguments increased and became increasingly bitter, the vitriol vicious and nasty—I allowed the seed to germinate, feeding it, cultivating it, watering it like a plant, and each fight, each day of silent treatment, served as fertilizer for the soil.
I still wouldn’t actually do it, that would be ridiculous, but the thought gave me something to focus on, an outlet for my anger and frustration rather than focusing on the words coming out of her mouth.
Actually, it was all my fault. The signs were there from the beginning, only I didn’t notice them then. I was blinded by love and the desire to always make her happy. Now, with the twenty-twenty vision that comes with hindsight, it was far too late.
We’d met in a café all those years ago, the memory still as clear as if it was yesterday. It was bitterly cold outside, and I remembered clasping my hands around a coffee cup, the warmth of the coffee going some way to restoring the feeling in my fingers. The café was cozy, warm in temperature and atmosphere, filled with Christmas shoppers taking a break from a morning hunting for presents for their loved ones. Excited conversations about what they had planned to buy, what they had found, and what they might find for themselves under the Christmas tree, filled the air. I wasn’t shopping. I didn’t have a partner and spoke little to my parents, just the obligatory call on birthdays and Christmas Day. They had always been distant, even when I was a child, and once I left home and found a place of my own, we drifted even further apart.
I glanced around the café, observing the shared smiles, the intimate gestures, catching snippets of conversation. Did I resent the fact I was alone? Was I lonely? No. There was no-one special in my life, no-one to share things with, no-one outside of work colleagues, but so what? Moping about it wouldn’t fix things.
Then the bell above the door tinkled, a cold draft of air cutting through the warmth like a knife, and I saw her for the first time.
My heart stopped beating. I stopped breathing. There was no sound. The only movement was her. She walked in... no... floated in like an angel, but this angel had shopping bags looped over one arm as she eased the door shut with her other hand.
When the door closed, my heart started beating again, my lungs signaled the need for air, and my ears filled with the sound of the café. I watched her as she walked up to the counter, and somehow, despite the noise of the café, I heard her order.
“An extra hot mocha, please.”
Her voice was soft and magical, like the whisper of an angel’s wings. She turned and gazed around the café, looking for a seat. All the tables were full, mine the only one with a spare seat. When her eyes locked on mine, my heart stopped again.
I didn’t see her walk toward me—I still don’t know how it happened. One minute, she was at the counter, and the next, she was standing beside my table. I watched her lips move as if in slow motion, shapely crimson lips filled with possibility, but I heard no sound. She gestured at the chair, and all I could do was nod like an idiot. When she smiled, it was as if the sun had finally come out, and I realized my entire life until that moment had been a dull overcast day, heavy with the threat of rain.
3
That was then.
The angel had changed.
After an uneasy night in the same bed, I woke with a dull headache in my temples and a burning in the back of my throat from acid reflux. I rubbed my eyes and looked over to her side of the bed, but she was already up. Clara usually woke earlier than me, somehow able to function on a lot less sleep than the seven to eight hours I needed. I could hear her moving around somewhere in the house. I swung my feet off the bed and sat up. I didn’t want to face the day, but I had to. There was no way I could stay in bed. She wouldn’t like that.
I splashed water on my face, tamed my bed hair, and brushed my teeth before wandering into the kitchen. She was dressed for work, leaning against the kitchen countertop drinking coffee. I glanced nervously in her direction, but she avoided eye contact as she had done the previous evening. I sighed, the throb in my head getting stronger. I didn’t want to start the day like this—I had to do something. Besides, maybe I was actually in the wrong.
“Hey,” I started with something non-confrontational, dipping my toe in the water. No response. Taking a deep breath, I walked over and stood beside her, putting an arm around her. I would have gone for a hug from the front if I could, but with the hot cup of c
offee in her hand, that could have been dangerous. So, I took the safe option. Safe was always better.
She stiffened at my touch but said nothing. I pulled her closer and leaned my head against hers.
“Let’s not start the day like this. The fight was yesterday.”
She said nothing, but I could feel her body relaxing. I needed to do more.
“I’m sorry.”
That worked. She put her coffee cup down and leaned her head against mine, and I felt the tension I’d been storing in my neck and shoulders melt away. I moved to stand in front of her and embraced her in a tight hug, kissing her forehead.
“Let’s not fight,” I murmured into her hair.
Clara pulled away and tilted her head back to look into my eyes. “You started it.”
I bit my tongue. That wasn’t how I remembered it. I had been watching TV, minding my own business, but sometimes, it was better to take a bullet.
“I said, I’m sorry. Let’s not carry it on today.”
“How many times have I told you? You don’t listen.”
She’s right. I’ve stopped listening. I have to. There’s only so much a man can take.
“I do listen. I’m sorry.”
She looked at me, her face so close I could see her eyes darting from one of my eyes to the other, and I could smell her perfume and her shampoo. Then she smiled and ducked her head under my chin, resting her cheek against my chest. Despite everything that had happened, despite my thoughts just a minute before, I felt a stirring in my groin. I rubbed her back and slid one hand down to her buttocks, giving them a squeeze. She tipped her head back again and kissed me on the chin, then pushed me away.
“I have to go to work.”
I felt a tinge of disappointment, and she must have realized. Clara smiled again, her eyes sparkling the way they used to.
“Let’s continue this tonight.” She gestured toward the French press. “There’s still some coffee. It’s hot.”
“Thanks.” I nodded and watched her as she tipped the remains of her coffee into the sink, rinsed the mug, and left it upside down to drain on the side. She grabbed her keys and handbag from the dining table, then paused to look at me.
I still felt nervous, the wounds from the fight still raw, then she smiled again and walked over. She reached up, placed one hand on my cheek, then leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Her lips had a power of their own, sending a shiver down my spine, and I leaned into the kiss. She broke away and ran a hand through my hair.
“See you tonight.”
This time, I smiled with actual happiness. Life was so much better when she was in a good mood, happy. I’d spent our whole married life devoted to keeping her happy, but it wasn’t easy. She was tough, a perfectionist, and had high standards, but I did my best. This morning, she was happy. Today was going to be a good day.
4
Clara sold cars and was very good at it, a standout success in what was predominantly a man’s world. It seems crazy since she wasn’t even that interested in cars. She’d told me once, years ago, it was just a means to an end. What she loved was the excitement of the hunt—seeing her prey walk into the showroom and knowing she wouldn’t let them leave until they had signed on the dotted line. She didn’t care what she sold them as long as they bought something. Once they fell under her spell, there was no backing out. I knew what her spell was like. I had fallen under its influence, and it had captivated me from the minute we first met, from the moment she asked, “Is this seat taken?”
I watched her from the front door as she climbed into her car. She had the good car, a sleek Audi RS6 Avant in Daytona Grey Pearl, twin turbo-charged four-liter V8, 591 horsepower, zero to sixty in 3.1 seconds. It was incredible to drive. I loved it. Unlike Clara, I loved cars, but I couldn’t afford this one. Clara brought in the big bucks, so she got the nice car. The sad thing was, she didn’t even care about the car. She only drove it to show the other salesmen in the company that she was, in fact, the alpha male, not them.
Clara backed onto the road and gave the horn a quick toot. I raised a hand and waved. The tires chirped as they briefly broke traction, then the Audi roared off down the road.
Turning, I looked at my car, a six-year-old Toyota Corolla in an unassuming shade of beige. I wasn’t even sure what the zero-to-sixty time was, and the top speed probably wasn’t much higher, but I couldn’t complain. It was all I could afford right now. I worked from home as a freelance web designer, having left my salaried position in a large national firm almost a year ago, keen to make a go on my own.
Clara had supported me. In fact, it had been her idea, and she encouraged me from the start, but business hadn’t grown as planned. Even now, once I covered all expenses, there wasn’t much left over. If it wasn’t for the income Clara brought in, I would have to look for a proper job. But every day I convinced myself the next big client was just around the corner, that life could change in an instant, and I plowed on.
Besides, after almost twelve months as my own boss, I wasn’t sure I could fit back into a conventional corporate environment. I enjoyed lounging around the house in tracksuit pants and a t-shirt, keeping my own hours, snacking when I wanted, even taking frequent TV breaks. No, I didn’t want to change the job, but more money would be nice.
I stepped back inside, closed the door, and rubbed my hand over the stubble on my chin as my stomach growled. Walking into the kitchen, I picked up Clara’s coffee mug, shook the excess water out of it, and poured myself a cup of lukewarm coffee. As I leaned back against the countertop, I thought back to the fight and tried to see where I had gone wrong, what I could have done differently to have avoided conflict. I still wasn’t sure why it was my fault, and eventually, I gave up. What mattered most was we weren’t fighting now, and Clara had left the house happy. I briefly remembered my thoughts about killing her and shoved the memory away. What was I thinking? It had been a misunderstanding. Everything was okay now.
5
It was a quiet day for me. I had a project that needed a few last touches before sending it off to the client and a couple of invoices to submit, but that was it. I really needed to do a bit more promotion to find more clients, increase cash flow, but it could wait. Clara was happy again, and that’s all that mattered right now.
I spent the afternoon cleaning the house, making sure everything was in order, then preparing dinner. I marinated lamb chops and washed and cut a bunch of spinach, ready to be stir-fried in garlic. When I was finished I wiped my hands on a dishcloth and ran my eyes around the kitchen to make sure nothing was out of place. The countertop was wiped clean and dry, the lamb chops were sitting in a covered glass bowl next to the cut spinach. Everything was ready. I checked my watch. There was still an hour before Clara would get home, and I wouldn’t start cooking until she was home. I suddenly felt at a bit of a loss. What could I do to fill the time until she arrived?
Walking to the dining table, I flipped open my laptop, checked my email, then had a quick look at a proposal I had prepared for a call the next day. Then, not feeling like concentrating on work, I opened Facebook, and a memory popped up in my feed, a photo I had shared five years previously. I clicked on the photo until it filled the screen.
We both looked so much younger then. Well, Clara still looked the same. She didn’t seem to age, but my temples had grayed, and the lines around my eyes and the crease in my forehead had deepened. We looked happy, tanned, and carefree. Clara’s hair had lightened in the sun, and her cheeks and nose were tinged red. Her eyes sparkled, and her teeth flashed white against her sun-kissed skin as she laughed at a joke cracked by the waiter taking the photo. That had been a fun day.
It had been our anniversary, and I had surprised Clara with a long weekend away. I’d secretly cleared it with her boss and picked her up straight from work, a bag already packed and her passport in my pocket. We’d taken a late flight down to Nice, where I picked up a hire car. We drove along the coast to the little town of Frejus, where I had booked
three nights in a bed-and-breakfast, an old fisherman’s cottage restored and filled with beautiful furniture and mementos from the owner’s travels around the world.
We’d spent the days in the sun, strolling the cobble-stoned streets, visiting the Roman ruins, or sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. We dined out on seafood and drank bottles of crisp white Sancerre, and spent the nights curled up in each other’s arms.
I had always tried to make our anniversary special, a celebration of our love, and enjoyed surprising Clara, taking her somewhere different each time.
Recently, though, we hadn’t gone anywhere. Last year, Clara claimed she couldn’t spare the time away, and this year, I didn’t have the money. Instead, I had cooked a special meal at home, and we had wine and Tiramisu from Giovanni’s in the town, but it wasn’t the same.
I took a screenshot of the photo, then messaged it to Clara. Remember this?
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with a reply, an emoji with hearts for eyes.
Smiling, I closed my laptop. I needed to sort my life out, work harder, make more money—then maybe we could go to Frejus again and reclaim that happiness.
I stood and slid my laptop onto the bookshelf and checked my watch again—still some time. The business could wait until tomorrow.
It was time to take control of my life again. I’d let myself go recently, feeling depressed and lacking motivation.
I’d start with some press-ups.
6
The next few days went by like a breeze. I landed a couple of new clients, started exercising regularly, and even met Clara one day for lunch, something we hadn’t done in a long time. We laughed, shared memories, and even played our old game of choosing people in the restaurant and guessing their profession. It was just like old times. I dared to think life was back to normal… but I should have known better.