Marmite-Jam

I got home from university, wiped my shoes against the bristles of the welcome home mat, opened the door, and expected a kiss to greet me as I entered the house. Instead, I shivered as winter air chilled me inside the gloomy abode. 

I flicked the light switch on and the parchment-yellow lampshade illuminated the hallway. I glanced around for any signs of her, but the rest of the house was dark.

The image from that morning when she threw up her hands and said, “No cup of tea?” popped into my head.

“Martha?” I called. 

Maybe she was cooking, although why were the lights off? I headed to the kitchen and lit it up. There was spilled milk on the bench top and wayward Rice Krispies that hadn’t made it into the bowl. Dirty dishes littered the sink.  

She was not in the kitchen either? I frowned. Maybe she was sick, still in bed? My innards churned as I paced the linoleum floor. I suddenly imagined her lying in the bed unconscious with a high fever. 

I dashed towards the bedrooms, “Martha?” I shouted, my voice shaky, as I noticed a slither of light escaping the bedroom. I flung open the door.

The bed was empty, unmade, the pillows haphazard and the sheets skew-whiff. 

I let out a sigh, caught my breath, and was able to let mental images of calling an ambulance fade away.

The drawers of our rustic wooden cupboard were out and her clothes missing. 

“What is going on?” I said to myself, opening and closing the drawer. Each time I did it, the drawer remained empty. I pictured a thief hauling a bag of her loot. Surely not? I pulled out my drawers to find shirts, socks, and underwear all in place. 

Would a burglar leave without our expensive electronic picture frame? My eyes widened as I looked at it. It showed a selfie of an angry Martha giving the middle finger. My mouth fell open and I held my head in my hands.

She had left me.

* * *

Nine months earlier, things couldn’t have been better. It was the day after our engagement party and we had one last present to open. 

We were in our bedroom, curtains open, early morning spring sunlight beaming into the room. A robin fretted on an outside branch and chirped. Somewhere nearby, maybe a neighbour’s house, someone laughed.

Martha lay on the bed beside me, in her white dressing gown, with tousled black hair and a wry smile. I remembered when I first met her, in her black waitress outfit and white apron, I thought she was French. Until she spoke in a Scouse accent.

“What do you think this is?” she said, examining the rectangular object smothered in golden wrapping paper.

“A prenup?”

“Michael,” she said, gently hitting me on the head with it. 

“A deadly weapon?” I said, rubbing the impact site and pretending to be hurt.

“Oh sweetie, you’re so delicate,” she said, tearing away the wrapping paper.

She stared at it and shrugged. “It’s a bit random,” she said, “typical of your parents.” She handed it to me.

“How exciting,” I said, “a picture frame.” It was an electronic gadget that had a sleek black frame and a screen rather than glass. It smelt of that new device smell–plasticky with a hint of chemical.

She laughed. It made me feel alive to hear her laugh. Like a small validation of my wit. Would she still laugh at my jokes three children deep?

“Hang on,” I said, “this is neat. We connect it to both our phones and it automatically uploads photos we take.”

“Let's do one now,” she said, phone appearing like a card appeared in a magician's hand.

We posed for a selfie and an instant later it was there in the picture frame.

“Let's put it in our room, so we can always see our lives together,” she said. 

A brief hammer and nail moment later the picture frame hung proudly in our room.

“Imagine what pictures will be there when we end up in a rest home,” I said. And she laughed again.

* * *

Three months before she walked out on me, we were arguing on a daily basis. We argued about everything, but recurring themes included the importance of not leaving the toilet seat up and the importance of clearing away used cups. 

We’d had another argument. Apparently, I used too much toilet paper. I could be more economical if I just used one square at a time and folded it in half. I saw the error of my ways and was rewarded with amazing make-up sex. We were lying relaxed on the bed.

Lazy autumnal light shone through the window casting shadows about the bed and cupboard. The air felt stagnant. Somewhere outside, perhaps in a neighbouring house, a child cried.

I was trying to read an article about AI’s impact on society for an assignment I was writing for my sociology class about the pros and cons of AI as a companion to people who otherwise struggled to have friends. But I couldn't focus.

“Do you want a piece of marmite-jam toast?” I said.

“Marmite-jam? What is wrong with you?” She picked up a book about body language, her new thing. It had the unintended consequence that I was constantly self-conscious around her. She was a psychology student after all and so I guessed it made sense.

“It's bittersweet and delicious.”

“Caramelised shit,” she said, nonchalantly turning a page.

I got out of bed and proceeded to the kitchen. I made toast, buttered it, spread the marmite and then the jam, and took a bite. The bitter marmite flavour was perfectly complemented by the sweet strawberry jam as I bit into the crunchy toast. I headed back to the room naked and plateless, eating my toast.

I stopped in the doorway. Martha scowled at the picture frame hanging on the wall. 

“What’s wrong,” I asked. 

She didn’t answer and continued to scrutinise the picture being displayed. It was one of my old photographs, probably accessed from the cloud, taken at a time before we'd started dating. It showed me kissing a girl in a bar, a glass of beer in my hand, and a blue alcopop in hers. The glowing effect of the picture frame’s LEDs helped the picture stand out.

“That’s Chelsea isn’t it?” she finally said, pointing, her hand quivering. 

“It is, but, I can explain,” I said, putting the toast on the bedside cabinet. This was awkward but we could talk it through. I went to hold her.

She flinched and I stopped.

“No, it's fine,” she said, bringing her legs up to her body and cuddling them with her arms.

The pitch of my voice rose and I spoke quickly. “No, wait, it's not like that, it was…”

“It's fine,” she said, her voice flat, eyes staring out the window.

“Please, let me help you understand.” I placed my hands on the bedside cabinet for support.

“I understand perfectly.” 

“You do?”

“Yes. I understand you kissed my best friend and never bothered to tell me.”

“It was before we dated!”

She shot me a look with hurt betrayed eyes that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But, I love you.”

“Whatever,” she said, turning and facing the window. And from her body language, I realised the conversation was over.

* * *

Three days had passed since Martha had gone and I'd not left the house once. I’d texted my tutors that I was unwell and had stayed in my pyjamas the whole time. I’d texted Martha too, but she hadn’t replied.

The cupboard in the room was still half open and the bed sheets were still dishevelled. I sat at the edge of my bed and, despite myself, kept looking at the picture frame showing Martha’s furrowed brows and prominent middle finger. 

I took a bite of marmite-jam toast I’d made earlier. Bittersweet. Just like everything else in my life. 

“I guess the wedding's off,” I said to myself.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I thought maybe one of my friends was checking in but instead, there were notifications. One caught my eye: “Meet Your Perfect AI Companion.”

I blinked and my thumb hovered over the screen. I didn’t have to feel this way, did I? I didn’t have to wallow in these memories of how I messed things up. I could just move on, and AI was becoming more acceptable now for friendships, wasn't it?

I clicked on the app. It opened smoothly. “Welcome to the Future of Love,” it said. My heart pounded but I continued. I’m sure the AI girlfriend wouldn’t give me a hard time about toilet paper, or send me selfies flipping the bird.

The setup process was easy. Name, appearance, personality. A few taps and it was done. 

The picture frame flickered into life and my new AI girlfriend, Beth, appeared in an instant. She was blonde, beautiful, busty. 

“Hi Michael,” she said from my speaker's phone, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The picture frame cycled through different photographs of her hugging generated versions of me. It was perfect. I started to cry.

“Is everything okay, Michael?” she asked, her voice empathetic with a hint of tinniness. “I’m here for you.”