Op-Ed

‘Come on, Sally!’

Sally grimaced, which only delayed the application of eyeliner even further. ‘Stop hassling me!’ she barked.

There was silence from the other room, pregnant with the promise of further hassle any second.

‘We’ll be late.’

There it was. He just could not help himself. Sally took a deep breath and let it out with a collection of words that she hoped would convey the inverse ratio of urgency to hassle that was quickly developing. There was more silence from the other room, slightly less pregnant. But it was only less pregnant in the sense that a woman without a test kit is less pregnant than a women with a test kit and a pee soaked hand. It was the inevitability of the silence that caused Sally to pause. Waiting.

After a good thirty seconds of pausing, Sally resumed her make-up ritual, cautiously satisfied that she would be left alone until she deigned herself ready to emerge, a butterfly from the pupa of the daily grind. Or at least a facsimile of beauty with an undercoat of resentment.

—

Gary’s eyes were reproachful, a stare of seething annoyance over the back of the couch, as she strolled casually into the living room ten minutes later. His eyes said many things but his brain was wise enough to prevent his mouth from articulating any of them. Sally smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we then?’ She made it sound as if she was the one waiting for him.

Taking a long inhale, the kind that acts as a temporary fire blanket to heated words that would only be regretted the moment they were free, Gary stood and turned off the TV, the end credits of a lame sitcom snapping sharply to black standby.

‘Why were you watching that rubbish?’ Sally asked. Inside she gently massaged the juvenile glee of her question with self-congratulation.

‘It was something to stare at while I waited for you to get ready. I never expected to see the whole show.’

Sally decided against rising to that particular bait. She had far better things to get her hooks into later. Let him settle into a gentle simmer. If she let him boil over now, all the fun she had planned would be spoiled. ‘Well, I’m sure it had no permanent effect on your IQ.’

Gary grunted. ‘Here’s hoping.’ He stood up and pulled on his jacket, heading for the front door.

‘I just need to pee,’ Sally said sweetly, turning with a theatrical sweep back towards the bathroom.

—

Gary drove in silence as Sally watched the streetlights tick by through the side window of the car. The road slid steadily along underneath them as Gary tried to ignore the icy tension floating off his wife. Or was it floating from him towards her? The net result was much the same.

He had searched the bathroom on several occasions, convinced that she must have a book or something stashed away in there. There was no possible way that a woman could spend that much time getting ready and emerge so similar to the way she had entered. Sure, she went in looking normal and emerged looking beautiful, but how could it take that long?

Perhaps she didn’t even need the distraction of a book. He was perfectly prepared to believe that she sat there doing nothing more than enjoy the irritation that she knew she was causing him. He could imagine her sitting there, periodically checking her watch to see if she had wasted enough time yet, smiling in childish joy.

How had it come to this? They had been so passionate only a few years before. Never mind. There was a convenience to things and they still had fun in their own way from time to time. Passion came in many forms and from many sources. With any luck she’d have a few drinks at tonight’s party and be rather less frosty on the way home.

There was the insistent electronic cry of a text message arriving from the pocket of Gary’s jacket on the back seat. Sally looked around, ‘Shall I get that for you?’

‘No, no,’ Gary answered, rather too quickly. He cursed himself in the dark recesses of his conscience. ‘It can wait,’ he added, as casually as possible.

Sally turned back and smiled softly at the streetlights marching by.

—

‘Darling, you look incredible!’ Sally smiled broadly at the verbal equivalent of a cream éclair with extra sugar, while Gary winced, looking around the room. Sally began returning the effervescent greeting while she flapped one hand at him, vaguely indicating a table with wine on top and beer in iceboxes below.

Gary sighed and strolled casually over towards the promise of alcoholic pain relief. Maybe he could convince Sally to drive home. Of course, that would mean that he would be drunk and she would be icier than ever. And he was bound to do something wrong that would only increase the cold front for several days, with the promise of random flurries and further cold snaps. He started on his first beer while he thought it through a couple of times. He would take Sally a glass of wine in a minute. She could wait.

Then he remembered the text message arriving in the car. He slipped his phone from his pocket and casually opened the text. The naughty little boy in him revelled when he saw that it was from her. Then his blood turned cold. He read the message again:

can’t believe u invited me 2 ur party!! ur finally introducing me to ur friends!!! so excited!!!!! c u soon!!!!!!! xx

Every exclamation mark was like an icicle of guilt dropping through his soul. Gary felt as if there was a spinning vortex where his stomach used to be. He looked over to Sally. She looked back, one eyebrow raised, one side of her mouth hitched up in a curious half-smile.

The doorbell rang.

Alan Baxter is Alan Baxter is an independent author based in Sydney, Australia. He has been described (by himself) as an optimistic cynic – someone with little faith in the chances of anything, but hopeful nonetheless. Convinced that the humanity seems to be fighting a battle between progress and idiocy, Alan has placed himself firmly in the no man’s land between the two camps, happy to make sandwiches during breaks in the fighting. He is also a martial arts instructor, so don’t complain about his sandwiches.
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