blind date
By Mary Jennifer Payne
Slamming down the grocery bags on the cluttered countertop, Monica Holmes turned, hands on hips, to face her husband.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "All I asked you to do today was one simple thing. One. And you've forgotten?" Her eyes narrowed into angry slits of green.
Ted nodded. He shifted his bulky frame uncomfortably on the kitchen chair.
"I can't hear you! Did you or did you not forget?" Monica spat each word out carefully with a measured dose of sarcasm. She turned to rummage impatiently through her fashionable red handbag.
"I'm sorry. I . . . don't know where the time went," Ted said. His voice was soft. He traced an imaginary line on the shiny surface of the kitchen table, his finger leaving a misty trail of greasy perspiration in its wake.
"You're sorry? You can't even take the time to make one goddamn phone call out of your entire unemployed, sit-on-your-fat-ass day! If anyone should be sorry, it's me for having made the mistake of ever letting you into my life." Monica laughed harshly, fishing a package of cigarettes from her handbag. She tore off the plastic wrapping and tossed it onto the counter.
Ted watched as she angrily stuck a cigarette between her heavily made-up lips. He wished she wouldn't wear so much make-up. At forty-five, Monica was still a beautiful woman. He remembered when she used to wear only tinted gloss on her lips, recalled kissing those lips, tasting black cherry, chocolate or Dr. Pepper, depending on the day. Now as he watched Monica inhale smoke as though her life depended on it, he realized how long ago those happy times were.
Monica glared at Ted while exhaling tiny, onion-ring-shaped clouds of smoke from her lips. He couldn't help but wonder when they'd last laughed together.
"So . . . no deep freezer has been delivered," Monica said carefully, tucking a loose strand of highlighted blond hair behind her ear. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Well, I guess that means I'll be off to dinner with a friend while you gorge yourself on the ice cream you asked me to buy for you."
Ted's view of Monica's angry face blurred as his eyes grew hot with tears. He knew exactly who that 'friend' was. She didn't attempt to hide the affair anymore, sometimes even flaunting it, going so far as to pull brightly covered condoms out of her handbag and feign surprise, giving a little cry of "Oh!" and giggling mischievously.
She hates me, he thought. And until just a little over a week ago, the knowledge of that hatred had been killing him. Literally. He'd spend hours sitting alone on their bed in his wrinkled, sour-smelling flannel pyjamas while Monica was off at her high-powered, Bay Street job surrounded by successful men attired in tailored suits. And he'd think.
He'd imagine a world in which Monica was free to live with her handsome, broker boyfriend minus the burden of some fat, clinically depressed albatross of a husband hanging around her Estee Lauder-maintained neck. A home without his presence would also allow their eighteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer, the freedom to bring home her friends without the embarrassed introductions. Thinking of Jennifer made Ted's heart ache as though it were being slowly squeezed between two heavy hands. He couldn't imagine not seeing her every day.
But that had all changed now. Any thoughts he might have entertained about ending his life had been swept away like bad memories. And it was all because of her. Angelina. Just her name alone conjured up images of warm smiles, laughing blue eyes, and . . . well, to be honest, bountiful and authentic breasts. Some of us have our own little secrets, he thought. He smiled to himself. It felt good keeping something from Monica.
"Are you even listening to me?" Monica said, mobile phone in hand. She'd put her coat back on and stood glaring at him.
"I'm sorry," Ted said. He looked down at the table and folded his meaty hands together. He didn't want to wipe away the tears that were threatening to cascade down his ruddy cheeks. Didn't want Monica to see. Like a predator, she was always on the lookout for any indication of weakness. He looked down at his hands again. They reminded him of two fat, albino fish, forever locked together in a clammy embrace.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Monica mimicked, dialing a number as she spoke. "Jesus, at least give me something that's original."
Ted felt a stab of pain at the joyful anticipation on his wife's face as she dialed. He wondered if there was ever a time, years ago when they were still in love, when she was that eager to talk to him. There must have been, but that and many other happy memories of their twenty-year marriage were shelved somewhere in a distant, seemingly inaccessible past. He coughed nervously to break the sudden silence, to feel like less of an intruder in his own home.
Monica looked over at him with disdain, her eyes glittering flatly in the gleam of the overhead kitchen light. Ted found himself thinking about the reptiles that he and Jennifer always found sunning themselves on the flat rocks in the backyard of his sister-in-law Susie's place in Miami. Jennifer had been young then, only twelve at the time of their last trip. Young enough to still adore her father, but old enough to begin to feel ashamed of his enormous bulk, the tent like T-shirts he wore. Ted noticed even then the slight lowering of her head when they walked together past groups of kids her age at the mall, or when he'd pick her up at school.
"Can't you wait in the car?" she finally asked one day, her eyes on her Nike trainers, her hands clutching the silver shaft of her flute. Ted remembered the whiteness of her knuckles, the rows of lockers that were silent witnesses to his shame, his embarrassment.
Ted shivered. It was early evening and the cool air of the impending night rode into the room on a breeze, accompanied by the faint sounds of a children's baseball game down the street.
"But, I am sorry. I don't know why I forgot," Ted said. This was a complete lie. He knew exactly why he'd forgotten and knew he wouldn't alter the course of his afternoon even if he were given the opportunity. In fact, he'd made a lot of phone calls that afternoon. The banks, mortgage company, post office and local moving company had all heard from him. Everything was in place. He smiled to himself, thinking about how Monica would react when she finally found out about his plans...
The entire story, Blind Date, can be found in theWordscape 8 short story anthology. Please contact the Toronto Branch of the Canadian Authors Association at www.tacob.org for more details and information on ordering.