Tea and Breakups

        The rose-printed, gold-edged china tea kettle on which she’d blown a month’s salary whistled, and he jumped nearly to the ceiling. Had she seen it, she would’ve seized the opportunity to add some snide remark or other to her already-massive repertoire. Fortunately, however, she was in the kitchen, preparing for the tea that would end all teas.

           Perhaps, he thought for what seemed the millionth time, this would prove a mistake. He thought of his mother after his father had left them, how she’d had to piece their lives back together when she herself had shattered. Working from early morning to late at night, struggling to put food on the table. Wearing clothes that looked like patchwork quilts because she couldn’t afford to replace them. Praying every morning that her thirty-year-old Kia would start. She’d never complained, but he’d seen the droop of her shoulders, the glint in her eyes. He’d heard her weeping in her room with the door closed after she’d thought he’d gone to bed. Perhaps this would mean repeating the sins of his father—something that, time and again, he’d promised himself he’d never do. He wished he could tell himself that things would work out differently for Clarice, that she, unlike his mother, could easily stand on her own two feet. But, alas, not so. She’d spent the first three years of her life with an abusive father and, after her mother had finally gathered the courage to get out, the rest of her childhood running with her, from him. By the time he’d died in a car accident when she was eighteen—a turn of events she said she regretted to admit she viewed as a relief—her mother had tried but failed to save up for her to attend college. As such, she worked in food service, making far too little for a comfortable living. And she would never in a million years swallow enough pride to allow the man who’d kicked her to the curb to help her out afterward.

           The tea kettle clicked and then quieted, replaced with the scuffling of her Versace slippers.

           He straightened, tugging at the shirt she’d said made him look “like the Pillsbury Doughboy.” He would’ve chosen something else, if not for the fact that she’d aired similar sentiments about every last thing in his closet, a closet she’d declared a “pigsty” right after he’d spent two hours cleaning and organizing it, in a room where she’d told him that he “didn’t know how to please a woman.” Just one of the seemingly-infinite Russian nesting dolls of criticism she’d managed to sculpt throughout their five years together.

           He glanced at the clock. Almost seven—time for Jeopardy! He used to watch it religiously, but, since the night she’d come in during the half hour and remarked, “Doesn’t seeing all these smart people make you feel kind of bad?” it just didn’t hold the same appeal.

           A clink. “Honestly, Taylor, what’s wrong with you?”

           His stomach plunged. Forcing strength into his legs, he rose and headed to the kitchen. He found her crouching before one of the dark cherry cabinets with which she’d insisted upon replacing the home’s original, perfectly good maple ones, expression implying an atrocity but the dishes before her showing none. “What?” he demanded.

           She gestured threw out a hand, talon-like French-manicured nails pointing toward the china on the shelves. “Did you really put the salad plates above the dinner plates? How many times have I told you…It’s like living with a kindergartener.”

           Lava rose in his chest. “I don’t see what’s wrong with—“

           “Because you have no sense, Taylor. I swear, you must’ve been raised in a barn.”

           The lava swelled; his fists clenched. “I—“

           “I have to hand it to your mother, though. She really knew how to raise a barbarian.”

           “I want a divorce.” The words gushed from his mouth before he could consider them.

           She stared at him, eyes swelling to the size of melons. “Seriously?” 

           “I don’t want to, but I can’t take it. Every little thing I do—“

           “This is rich, Taylor. Really rich.”

           “I—“

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life—and that’s saying a lot.” She straightened, the fiery glint in her eyes replaced with one less incendiary but much more disconcerting. A chill snaked up his spine.

He pushed it back. “We’ve gotta talk about the terms.”

           “Fine. I’ll get the tea ready, and we’ll talk.”

           He returned to the living room and dropped onto the couch. The heat abated, allowing the events to hit him for the first time. He shouldn’t have done that. Yes, she’d angered him, and yes, she’d spoken much more harshly than she should have, but a dispute over a couple of plates should not a final straw make. What had he done?

           Could he undo it? He could tell her that he’d just lost his temper, that rage had blinded him to sense, to what he really wanted. He could apologize. He could promise to make it up to her, maybe by buying her those Gucci pumps she’d lusted after since seeing them on one of the runway shows she DVR-ed every week. He could assure her that he’d never do it again. He could beg forgiveness, kissing her perfectly pedicured feet.

           But it would prove no use; that last look in her eyes had assured him that he’d blown it.

           Clarice entered, carrying a tray holding the kettle and two steaming, gold-rimmed china cups. She set it on the coffee table and took a seat on the other couch. They grabbed their mugs and sipped. He didn’t taste it.

           Finally, he said, “All right. First things first: Who gets the house?”

           “You can have it.”

           His brows rose. He’d expected her to cling to everything—as minor a trifle as a scented candle, if it meant something to him. Even if she didn’t like the place—unlikely, considering that she had chosen it because, she’d said, he “had no taste” for houses or anything else—she could’ve sold it for five, maybe six hundred thousand. How could she give it up, just like that?

           She took another sip and set her cup on its saucer.

           He moved on: “What about the furniture?”—Again, chosen by her.

           “Yours.”

           His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. There was definitely something weird going on here. Something he had a feeling he wouldn’t like one bit. Before he could question her, however, she slouched, clutching her chest.

           “You okay?”

           “I…I don’t feel well…” She crouched further, breath heaving, face as pale as limestone.

           His pulse quickened. “What’s wrong?”

           “My stomach,” she groaned, doubling over. “No…”

           With a trembling hand, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m calling 911.” He did so. He explained to the dispatcher what had happened as best he could. The dispatcher promised to send an ambulance. He hung up and turned back to Clarice.

           “They’re not gonna get here on time,” she said, still clutching her stomach. “Stuff’s too powerful…”

           His brows furrowed, his heartbeat as heavy as the firing of a cannon. “What ‘stuff’?”

           She glared at him, the glint of her eyes piercing his bones. Never in his life had he seen so much hate made so compact. He clenched his jaw, breath catching.

           “It was gonna work out fine,” she said, voice rough with agony. “But then you distracted me, and I mixed up the cups…As usual, you had the worst timing…”

           Ice replaced the fire in his veins. He stared at her with eyes so wide that the image blurred. Even so, he could see her slip off the couch and melt onto the ebony floor. A groan that could easily have been his crackled in her throat. He couldn’t watch; he turned away, heart beating the breath from his lungs. And, yet, all the while, he thanked God that he hadn’t known where she wanted the plates.