Nothing More Beautiful
Normally I'd give a genre here, but I think this might be too short to really have one. Slice of life? Psychological thriller? I don't know. Suggestions welcome.
Warning for abuse.
The door slams shut and I know she’s home. I save my work, turn off the monitor and go out to meet her. When I reach the front room of my little apartment she is facing away from me, bent over to pick up some mail that she’s dropped. Her jeans are pleasantly tight, and I take the time to look before I greet her.
Warning for abuse.
The door slams shut and I know she’s home. I save my work, turn off the monitor and go out to meet her. When I reach the front room of my little apartment she is facing away from me, bent over to pick up some mail that she’s dropped. Her jeans are pleasantly tight, and I take the time to look before I greet her.
“Evening, Sandra.”
She straightens up and spins around, paling noticeably.
“Rhiannon! Sorry about the door, I just, it’s a bit heavy, and it’s – I –
uh...” I hold up a hand, forestalling any more babble before she loses
coherency any further.
“It’s fine, Sandra. How was your day?”
Sandra flushes with relief as she realises I’m not angry. I
haven’t been for the three months we’ve known each other, at least not at her, but
old habits die hard.
“Oh, you know,” she says, “the usual. One minute I’m rushed
off my feet, the next I’m bored stiff.” There’s a slight quaver in her voice.
She’s frightened of me, just a little, and I should be unhappy. It’s not my
fault, and that should make me less unhappy. I’ve never been good at feeling
what I should.
“Go relax,” I suggest, “and I’ll get dinner ready.” She nods
and hurries away.
Later, I’m in the kitchen, slicing vegetables while the oven
heats and the meat marinates. Sandra walks in and sniffs the air
appreciatively. The scent of the marinade is strong.
“Smells good,” she says. “Anything I can do to help?”
“I have the food well in hand, but it would be good if you
set the table.” I tell her.
“OK.” I hear her footsteps on the tiles, the creak of the
cupboard door, clinking plates and a few more footsteps... capped off with a
squeal of shoes sliding on tile, a little shriek and a brief but startling
symphony of smashes. Turning around, I see a pair of plates in ruins at
Sandra’s feet. She’s not looking at the shattered crockery; her big brown eyes
are on me, hands clapped over her mouth and skin pale.
There is fear in her eyes, and there are few things sweeter
to me. It’s bittered, though, by the knowledge that it’s not truly me she’s
frightened of. She expects me to rage or sneer or possibly strike, and it
wasn’t me who set those expectations. I am not the Other Woman, who was far too
free with her words and her fists.
I should comfort her. I should hold her gently until she is
calm and tell her it will be alright. Later, after dinner, I should convince
her to get help with her anxiety, look for a therapist, get better. I should do
- should have done - a lot of things. What I want to do is back her against the
fridge and... well. How can I bring myself to help someone when their suffering
is so sweet to me?
In the end I find I do nothing until Sandra acts herself.
It’s only bending down to try and sweep up the pieces, apologising all the
while, but it’s enough to shake me out of watching my id fight my ego.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her as I fish out a dustpan
and broom. “They were cheap crap anyway. I can always get more.”
Dinner is served without any further incidents. She
compliments my cooking and I her choice of wine. After, we settle on the couch
and watch TV. She picks the channel; I find most of it equally insipid, but she
finds it relaxing and prefers to have company.
We’re watching some reality show – her gasping at what are
presumably the appropriate moments, me fantasising about filling the sets with
nerve gas – when an ad break starts and she mutes the TV.
“I’m sorry about the plates.” She says.
We’re already cuddling, so I give her a little extra squeeze
in lieu of a hug. “Accidents happen.”
“I know. It’s just... that was what happened the last time.
That was what I did to set her off.” Her. The Other Woman.
“That was what she used as an excuse to go off,” I correct
her. “Her lack of control was her fault.”
“I know.” She says. To me she sounds unconvinced. “She wasn’t
all bad though.”
“Bad enough.” Worse than me, and that’s saying something.
“I wonder if she’s gotten any better?” Sandra wonders aloud.
Then the ad break finishes and the sound goes back on.
She hadn’t gotten any better when I last saw her. Not that I
regret our last meeting. The Other Woman hadn’t recognised me – she’d been
drunk, I believe, the previous times we’d met – but had thrown a few insults on
general principles. From there she graduated to threats. I’d only grinned, and
she’d gotten nervous, which for abusive thugs is the same as aggressive. She’d taken a swing at me, and things got interesting.
I still remember the expression on her face at the end. The
blind animal terror... there is nothing more beautiful. Then she’d run.
She hadn’t watched where she was going.
She wouldn’t be getting any better, but maybe I might. Maybe
that memory might be enough for me. Maybe I’ll suggest therapy to Sandra
tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
We’ll see.
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