The red tie

For the last fifteen years of our marriage, my husband always wore the same blue tie. Today, however, when he appeared for breakfast, he was wearing a different color. He sat opposite me and grabbed a fork. I stared at the tie. Red, so alarmingly bright. It was bothering me.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

It was not a big deal. Maybe I had just gotten too used to seeing that blue tie and didn’t like the change. But inside me, a small voice protested.

“Yeah,” I said and took a sip of orange juice. It left a bitter aftertaste. I tried to eat my sunny-side-up eggs, but the yolk spread and smeared the plate. I hated when that happened. I looked up at my husband again. His red tie didn’t match the vase of pink flowers on the table. It spoiled the perfect view I had. It looked too vulgar, too daunting, too upsetting. I threw my fork on the plate, and it made a clanging sound.

“Why’d you have to switch to red?”

“What?” He looked at me. “What are you talking about?” He looked confused, and I felt annoyance grow under my skin. Then, following my gaze, he said, “Oh, I just got tired of it. It got boring. The same tie for fifteen years, come on.” He chuckled.

“But it was your favorite.”

“It was. Not anymore.”

“You started this tradition on our wedding day. You wore it when you got promoted and received a commendation at your firm. You had it on when Eva was born. How could you just get rid of it so easily?”

“Why are you being dramatic over a damn tie?” He slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin and carefully put it on the side of his plate. “I need something fresher. The red’s more enticing.”

“Enticing?”

“I needed this change.”

“Well, red looks ugly on you.”

He stopped fidgeting with his plate, sighed, and dared to look me in the eyes.

“This isn’t about the tie, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

He gulped his glass of juice and jumped up from his seat. “I’ve got to get to work. Relax, you’re working yourself up for nothing.” He gave me a goodbye kiss on my cheek and, almost at the door, yelled, “Oh, and don’t wait up for me today. We’re going out to eat Italian to celebrate our recent deal.”

I wiped my cheek with a napkin. The day was just starting. Whenever something bothered my mind, I turned to physical activities. So I spent the whole day washing the floors and polishing the kitchen. But I couldn’t stop analyzing every word from the morning conversation.

Later in the evening, I filled the bath, poured myself some wine, and immersed myself in warm water. From the window, I could see the sun going down. The outlines of the cypress trees loomed in the dusk. The candlelight illuminating the dark bathroom trembled when I let out a deep sigh. I thought and thought and thought and didn’t know what to blame it on. Nothing had really pointed to the grief that was to come. Fresh pink peonies every Friday. Dates at Panera twice a month. Late-night conversations about Renaissance art, God, and our future plans. Soft kisses before work. Now my house was crumbling in front of me, and I could do nothing about it.

Maybe he resented me for sending Eva to Thatcher School. He was an overprotective father who did not believe in boarding schools. But Eva herself chose it and liked it very much. Or maybe the reason was just simple and silly. Such as my chipped manicure or I didn’t shave my legs thoroughly enough for his taste. Maybe I talked too much and he grew tired. I started pondering over the conversations we had. Our weirdness was the common thing that glued us together when we first met. He’d wonder if aliens existed, and I’d reply that the Holy Book mentions this. Or I’d show him how I could move my ears, and he’d clap and laugh. Maybe it was that I grew too old? I always judged women who did Botox and thought of it as an act of silliness and desperation. This night, alone in our big house, I thought for the first time that these women were probably strategically smart. I looked down at my body. If I lost those pounds, would he put his blue tie back on? Yesterday I was picking flower petals off, and today I could do the same but for a totally different reason. I let out another sigh. I was thirty-eight and miserable.

The thoughts swirled in my head like captured birds in a cage. The busy day took its toll on me, and all my muscles were now relaxing in the water. I tried to reach for my glass, but my hand felt so heavy. I watched it move in slow motion and almost grabbed my glass when something in the darkness of the corridor caught my attention. Something moved there. Something passed by the door. This something was very unwelcome. The water got colder as I sat motionless. Then again, in the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow on the floor by the door. But it disappeared as soon as I turned my head to look. For the first time, I wished I was anywhere but in my house. At last, I got out of the shower, put on fresh clothes, and walked into the bedroom. Everything looked normal until the walls started closing in on me. I rushed to the door and somehow managed to get out. The hall looked the same, but I still walked with caution, ready to run if they started moving. It was quiet, and hearing my own loud breathing sent shivers down my spine. My own home’s walls were scaring me, and at some point, I felt so helpless that I fell on my knees right there in the hall, put my hands together, and cried to God. Tears blurred my vision and burned my face. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. It was all crumbling, and I feared that I would never recover from this. That I’d never feel good again. I cried and cried. But with every tear came relief. When I lifted my head, it was brighter in the room. The morning sun was shining through the living room windows.

Someone was opening and closing the fridge and the shelves in the kitchen. After some time, that someone walked into the living room. It had my husband’s face. But the face was gray and rotten. Flies were flying around him. As he put his arm up trying to get rid of them, two small snakes looked out from his sleeve and hid again. I covered my mouth and nose with my hands and thanked myself for not coming downstairs. Then the monster noticed me.

“Hey,” it spoke, and a fat fly flew out of its mouth. Inside, it was all rotten.

The monster was staring at me, and I stared back. Some moments passed in silence.

“Get out of here,” I said. I certainly could not be a wife to a dead husband.

The monster looked confused.

“Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

I stood in silence. The monster did the same. The red tie matched well with the red lipstick stains on its collar. Then the monster had the audacity to say, “Oh well. I may not look the same, but I am still your husband.”

“My husband wears a blue tie. You only have his face and voice. But you are not him. You are a disgusting monster, and you should leave me alone.”

“Listen, don’t burn the bridges, darling. You are being too harsh.”

“Listen, I am not into monsters, really. It’s not enticing at all.”

Something changed in the monster’s eyes. It must have remembered something. It stood there for some time, staring at the carpet and nodding its head to its own thoughts. Then it slowly turned around and walked out of the house. I rushed to the door and locked it. It hurt that it had my husband’s face. So familiar, so once beloved. It would take time to get used to that pain, but I wanted to believe I would get rid of it one sunny day. After all, I was thankful to myself for seeing who exactly it was that had the red tie on.