Another Wednesday

Marg Powers gently seated herself on the corner of the bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband. As she stared at his sheet-wrapped form, she contemplated how she'd do it.

Earlier that Wednesday morning, around six, she'd eased out of bed. She dragged herself into the bathroom and stared in the mirror at the woman she'd become. The former elegant beauty who had the brains and the talent to take her anywhere she wanted to go in life, now more closely resembled a bag lady. Her once glorious hair stuck out in short, bedraggled clumps. The sparkle in her warm, velvety brown eyes had vanished, replaced by chronically bloodshot whites. Her skin, her nails, her waistline, and worst of all, her architectural career had all succumbed to a prototypical suburban marriage with the requisite two children. As she squeezed a blob of toothpaste onto her toothbrush, she observed that her teeth still looked great. Not that anyone would notice. She didn't display them very often. 

Wednesday's schedule: make breakfast for the kids, prepare sack lunches for the kids, dress the kids, and accompany the kids to the bus stop (or drive them to school). Then do laundry, clean some house, buy groceries, make dinner, clean it up, put the kids to bed, and then crawl back beneath her own blankets. 

Forget sex. Just forget about it.

This. Happened. Every. Single. Wednesday. But it wasn't as if the other weekdays offered a break from the monotony. Yard work, repairs, shopping for necessities. Nonstop drudge. At least Brandon picked the kids up on his way home from work. At least, there was that.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, studying her spouse's resting form, she reviewed their life together. Twelve years. How had it boiled down to this mundane existence? And so quickly. She stared at the man she'd sacrificed her career for. Indeed, her entire adult life. In the beginning, they'd agreed that he would get his medical degree before she attained her master's, because the paycheck from her architectural firm was larger than his medical assistant's salary. Basically, she put him through school. Happiness was theirs, though. She was working in her chosen field—albeit not on the advanced, reputation-making projects that she desired—and he was learning his. A true team, they built a life together based on respect and love, and intense sex. The plan was, after he'd earned enough as a doctor to be able to afford it, she'd return to school to earn her master's. 

Almost immediately after his medical practice took off, she got pregnant. They were both elated, but when he encouraged her to become a stay-at-home-mom, claiming it would be better for the children, Marg had asked, "What about me?" She never received an adequate answer, at least not that she could recall. This was their first major disagreement. It simmered throughout her pregnancy, at times, boiling over. Ultimately, she lost the battle. She couldn't remember how it happened. All she knew was, she went on maternity leave from her beloved job and somehow never made it back. 

Brandon shifted in his sleep. As she continued to study him, she carefully mulled over the most efficient methods. One thing was certain: her plan would have to be rapid, tidy, and virtually soundless. Can't wake the kids!

First, she pictured hoisting a sledge hammer overhead with both hands, then slamming it down onto his sleeping face. One single, emphatic blow would certainly be enough, but Marg imagined piling on a few more. As techniques go, it would prove highly satisfying, but it would be way too messy. Other methods she dismissed as too messy: guns and knives.

What about arsenic? He'd suffer for months with vomiting, diarrhea, and cramping. No. Too slow. Plus, she really didn't want him to suffer, even if she had been.

Then she pondered the pillow solution. She could give him an overdose of Seconal in a fancy martini (she could ask him for a prescription; he'd write it in a heartbeat). After he passed out, she could jam a pillow over his face and bear down on it with her full body weight until he stopped dead. 

That could work. Would they be able to implicate her? Oh, who cares!

Brandon opened his eyes and yawned. Seeing her there, he said, "Hi, Honey."

She reached under the covers, pulled the Glock out from its hiding place, and emptied its contents into him. Each bullet made his body jump and bang against the headboard. Blood and bits flew around the room. Definitely messy.

He looked at her strangely. "Marg, are you okay?"

Rubbing her head, she said, "Sure, yeah. Just bored. Worn out."

Brandon flipped back the covers, walked over and sat beside her. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She yanked her hand away and shoved him backwards onto the bed. His head was thrown up, exposing his neck perfectly. Marg whipped her machete down so hard on his throat, she nearly decapitated him. Blood flooded their marital bed. Such a beautiful color.

He scooped up her other hand. His hands were warm. Hers felt dead. "You know, I was going to wait until our anniversary next week to tell you, but I think you could use some good news right now." 

Good news would be shoveling tons of dirt on top of his stone-cold body inside a deep, dark grave. "What is it?" she asked.

"Well, you know how I've received multiple job offers from prestigious medical groups around the country."

Marg nodded as she dug his eyes out with a spoon.

"Well, here's the idea. You choose which job I should accept based on which university you want to attend, and we'll move there. And you'll earn your master's degree."

His eyeballs magically popped back into their sockets. "Really," she said. Was she hearing correctly? "Is this a joke, Brandon?"

"No joke." He kissed her hands again. "You've been wonderful, a great mom. It's your turn now. You probably think I forgot about you."

"You did forget me."

"I'm sorry, Marg. I never intended to."

"What about the kids, the house stuff, the yard?"

"The kids are old enough. They'll be fine. We can work it out. We've saved a bunch of money, enough to pay for your school and get a housekeeper, maybe someone who can cook better than you do. No offense, Honey."

"None taken. I'd be happy to have someone cook for me." She stared at him, noticing a few wrinkles. He'd gotten older, too. "Thank you." She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, glad she'd brushed her teeth. 

Marg Powers, Master of Architecture. That sounded pretty good. Maybe she could forgive him.