Happy Birthday, Honey

The store was the first place I drove to on my own when he moved us here. A small little shop at the end of a new town. All I needed were a stuffed elephant, a funny card, Calvin Klein cologne a special lamp: pre-ordered online, and some lipstick. Quick. In and out. No problem. I knew where everything was. This store held many memories of us together, and more memories of when I had my own credit card and didn’t have to ask permission to spend my own money.  I would only be here briefly before coming home to celebrate.

The stuffed elephant, his favorite animal. For our first-year anniversary, he took me to the zoo. I do not understand anyone who enjoys going to the zoo. I remembered the elephants and the sadness in their eyes at being paraded around in a glass home. There was an anger in them that only I recognized. ‘Everyone’s watching, be happy, make them smile. Two elephants living in a glass house, who must get along. A disaster waiting to happen.

We hosted so many parties. Coworkers, family members, friends, acquittances, at one point, anyone off of the street could receive an invitation to one of our soirées. Every conversation would be about his designs. Friends of his always asked how I was, never expecting a genuine answer, merely to break the silence. ‘No, I’m not alright. I am in a marriage to a piece of shit who moved me away from my family, who invalidates my job, freezes my account and expects me to sit here with a big smile on my face, but not big enough to cause wrinkles. “Oh, I’m doing just fine. How are you doing?” I remember the eyes of the elephant staring at me from behind the glass. Yas, the stuffed elephant is perfect. It will put a nice smile on his face. The ounce of kindness left in my heart will allow him to have a nice birthday.

The funny card was bedraggled old lady with drooping breasts and a quote box coming out of them. The quote box said, “If we don’t get some support soon, people are going to think we’re nuts.” It was an inside joke. He’d joked that my breasts were getting saggier and saggier as the years go by. He’ll laugh and love that his wife is such a great sport. He’ll go to bed happy. When we got married, I loved his sense of humor. I would wait on bended knee for him to make a joke so I could see how witty and clever my husband was. Even when the jokes became about me. I laughed along especially when they weren’t funny to keep him happy. Now here we are, every joke he makes is like crossing off a date on the calendar, just getting closer and closer to his birthday.

The smell of the Calvin Klein cologne reminded me of our wedding day. A musky smell that sticks to the inside of your nostrils well after you’ve left the room. I used to love that smell. Well after he left for work, I would go into the laundry and smell one of the dress shirts. I remember how filled with love and promise I was then. The promise for a lovely evening where he would give me his special wink and kiss me like I’ve never been kissed before. A man comes out of the shadow and winks. It reminds me of how I used to love his laugh. Oh, how beautiful and special that laugh used to make me feel. Now every syllable of his laugh reminds me of a school yard bully. Any argument we had would result in his laugh. There was never a worse sound. If I brought up my job, my family that I moved away from to be here, it would all end the same way. That damn cackle.

A customized lamp made out of the outline of a photo of us, our arms entwined in embrace and our lips locked in a kiss. We looked just like Edward Munch’s ‘The Kiss’. We met by this painting. The museum of modern art. It was a rainy evening and I was looking for inspiration. Later, you would tell me that you were seeing someone at the time. It was doomed from the start, but nothing, not even fifty red flags swaying in the breeze would deter someone in love. It led me to this store on the outer side of town. The one I always go to. The one we have always been to together. Holding hands when we were making absolute idiots out of each other and parading our love like a Thanksgiving Day float. It never takes long for those floats to disappear. They either float up to the sky or shrivel to the ground, becoming some gross caricature of a caricature.

The Revlon red lipstick in the shade red dahlia was for after. I’ll need a fresh widow shade of red. Crimson was too Old Hollywood, to femme-fatale who meets a justified death at the hands of our moral protagonist. Cerise was too middle school girl trying to pass for high schooler at a party hosted by seniors. Red Dahlia was the perfect subtle shade of burgundy. A grieving woman that is still trying to put smiles on others faces while inside she is crying her perfectly made up eyes out. Oh, she’s such a trooper, poor soul. Bless her heart. Her husband died and she’s still trying to brighten everyone’s day.  

I had thought about it for months now. Strangulation is too up close. I’m not stupid. Little me had little chance of killing a man as tall as my husband with my bare hands. I had thought through many scenarios in my red head. It is all planned out. I would come home; he’d be home already. I’ll give him a giant kiss on the lips, full of passion and promise of something that would never come. He’d be on his computer. Some animation that would be looping on repeat over and over. A face comes out of the shadows and winks. A face comes out of the shadows and winks. A face comes out of the shadows and winks. I’d forgotten how many times I’d sat on the couch looking over his shoulder, seeing that face come out of the shadows. A face comes out of the shadows and winks. The face was every generic white man you’ve ever seen walking down the street. ‘When he’s dead, I’ll kill him too. I’ll toss that laptop in the garbage. No. I will tell his coworker to throw it in the garbage. It was his. Oh, please please get rid of it. I can’t bear to look at it anymore’. A face comes out of the shadows and winks. That face will never come out of the shadows again. Die you bastard, die.

I stand at the checkout in front of a zit faced high schooler. He hates his job; he is new to working so the formalities are lost on him. He never looks up from the items or even bothers to spit the gum out of his mouth. Not that I’ll be suspected of anything, but there is no chance this hipster would remember anything suspicious. He probably doesn’t even remember what he had for breakfast this morning.

He scans everything without taking a single look at my face. Perfect. The car ride back is silent, just how I like it. I smile knowing the items in my grocery bag are sitting pretty in the backseat. When I pull into our driveway, the first thing I see is his car. I park beside it and grab my bag from the back. Every step of my heel is like my heartbeat. But it’s not anxiety that’s moving my heart. Its excitement. The gun’s under our bed. I bought that from a guy at a gun show for a steal. The news will say, “A robbery gone wrong, what a tragedy!” In a few hours, I’ll grip it and shoot him dead. The excitement is so much that I can barely get the key into the lock. But it fits and I turn. It’s dark inside, but there’s a light on in the kitchen. I walk quietly. It’s empty. He must be in the living room. There’s a door that connects the living room to the kitchen. It’s wide open. I’m standing there glaring at it. My excitement is revving up. I don’t know if I can contain it. I hear footsteps coming. Happy birthday honey. A face comes out of the shadows and winks.