Wine Wednesday

“I am not over-reacting!” Edie screamed as she smashed the golf club into Dean’s shoulder.

He yelped in pain and retreated behind the couch, holding a cushion with a happy yellow duck on it up as a shield.

“Hon, stop! You’re going mental!” he cried.

“I am not mental!” she shouted, bringing the golf club down on the ugly lamp he had brought home from that boys weekend last year. Damn, she hated that lamp. “You stop!”

“How about you just put the four-iron down and we can talk about this,” he said in a conciliatory tone. He peeked out around the side of the floral couch with what he hoped was an encouraging smile before ducking back behind it as the TV remote whizzed past his head.

“No! We always talk about it, and you always convince me I’m in the wrong. But I’m not in the wrong!” she shrieked. “I want YOU to listen to ME for a change!”

“Ok, ok,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I’m listening. I’m listening. Just put down the club, you’re scaring me.”

Edie did not put down the club but continued yelling at him. Her fair, carefully maintained hair had come undone from its neat updo and fell wildly around her face.

“It’s never about me! All I do is work and take care of the kids and look after everyone else and it’s never about me. Never! This one time, one time, I ask for something for me and no, of course not, couldn’t possibly do that, because YOU have other plans! YOU can’t be arsed to do something that’s about ME for a change!”

She paced around the room swinging the golf club randomly around her, occasionally knocking things over. She was still wearing the pencil skirt and blouse she had worn to the office but had kicked off her heels so was walking in her stockinged feet.

“Hon, I’ve been booked into that race for months. It’s on the calendar! You knew I was going away that weekend!” he protested, bracing the duck cushion over his head.

“No! Shut up! You think I pick the date for the Insurance Industry Awards? I only found out about it today! If you were a GOOD husband you’d want to be there, not riding your fucking bike along the Hawkesbury with your mates.”

“Hey, no fair,” he said, standing up behind the couch and holding the duck cushion in front of himself like a shield. It was an odd look, with his black lycra biking gear and slicked back dark hair, a fierce expression on his face and a childish smiling duck in front of him.  “I am a good husband. Don’t pull that one on me. I cook, I clean, I take care of you and the kids.”

He met her eyes, challenging her to disagree, keeping the couch between them as a defensive wall. Edie knew that look. Fucking narcissistic bastard honestly believed he was a good husband.

Edie stopped pacing and leaned on the golf club like a walking stick. She stared him down, unflinching.

“Name Jack’s teacher,” she said.

“What?”

“Name. Jack’s. Teacher. And Sophie’s best friend. And how much antibiotics syrup does Amy need to take before school?” she said, her voice rising again. “Mr Father-of-the-Year.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Dean said. “And you’re changing the subject. You knew I was doing the Hawkesbury Classic that weekend, it’s on the calendar, you knew about it. And then you come and drop this awards thing on me tonight and expect me to just change everything!” His voice rose defensively as he pointed towards the kitchen where the family calendar was.

“I expect you to support your wife,” Edie yelled. “I expect you to, I don’t know, be proud of me! Come and celebrate with me! But I guess it’s more important to go do your bike race!”

“We can celebrate when I get back!” he replied. “You don’t need me there, and I won’t know anyone, it would be weird and boring for me!”

Edie swung the club towards him again and hit the couch. “Shouldn’t matter!” she yelled. “You know me!”

Dean hunched down again with his duck shield over his head. “You really are over-reacting, hon. Maybe you’re hungry, do you think? You’ve been on that diet since new year’s, I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

“Don’t you DARE tell me how I’m feeling,” Edie almost whispered as she moved around the side of the couch. “Oh Edie, you’re just tired. Oh Edie, you’re so emotional. I can feel whatever the hell I want to feel!”

“And why do you not know the people I work with?” she yelled. “I know the people YOU work with. You’re doing it again! Gaslighting! Why can’t you ever listen to me?!”

Dean tried to crawl past her on all fours, making for the bedroom door. “Hon, I really think you should put that down and think about this,” he said in a pinched voice.

“Name Jack’s teacher!” Edie screamed as she brought the club down on his back.

Dean let out a primal, animal yell as he fell flat onto the tiles. He pulled himself, prone on the floor, towards the bedroom.

“Name Sophie’s friends!” Edie screeched wildly as she landed a blow on Dean’s head.

The hand that Dean put up to defend his head came away stained dark red. “Babe. Sweetheart. I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

“How. Much. Medicine. Does. Amy. Need!” she shrieked, each word punctuated by the sickening thud of Dean’s head breaking open, like a pumpkin dropped from a height.

Edie thought Dean would be so upset if he could see the tiles now. He was always particular about keeping the house clean and had made the kids scrub the grout in those tiles only last weekend. Now the red pools flowed smoothly across the gleaming white gloss with impunity.

She looked around the room. It was very untidy now. The TV screen was broken. Fragments of the broken lamp were strewn across the side table and the floor. Blood spatter and gelatinous globs of brain and matted hair decorated the walls and ceiling with a bizarre Jackson Pollock-esque design that clashed terribly with the couch pattern. Dean would be pissed if he saw this.

She walked into the kitchen, gleaming with polished stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops, leaving oddly textured footprints in her wake. She opened the perfectly organised fridge and pulled a bottle of Chardonay from the back, poured herself a large glass, and opened the cookie jar.

Fuck Dry January, she thought, and crossed the Hawkesbury Classic off the calendar.