The Anniversary Party

I eat my breakfast under the watchful gaze of our wedding photos. They hang on the wall behind me as I crunch my cold granola. We’d insisted on sunset photos that day five years ago. Framed in black, the red and copper splashes across the stark grey walls of our formal dining room. Our faces are nearly as radiant as the backdrop. We were all joy that day. We were hopeful.

I hear your footsteps on the marble tile in the kitchen before I see you enter the room. You’re wrangling with your tie, undoing it before my eyes, making sure I see. It’s still pristine and crisply pressed even though I know it spent the night on the floor. Pretending to take it off in front of me, pretending that you just came home from rounds at the hospital, is important to our façade. You hope it masks the smell of her perfume.

“Why are you eating your breakfast in the dining room?” You ask.

I merely shrug in response. A droplet of almond milk sloshes out of my mouth in between bites. It dribbles down my face.

You cringe shaking your head slightly. You bring your index finger to the side of your lip, acting as a mirror to show me what needs cleaning. I raise my arm to wipe away the milk with the sleeve of my bathrobe. Your face tightens into a grimace. You want me to use the napkin; the proper way. I pinch my cheeks back, pursing my lips and mop at the streak rolling down my chin with the linen napkin.

“Well we have the breakfast nook in the kitchen for you to eat your cereal. That’s what it’s for, right? I mean you just had to have it last year when we had the kitchen remodeled.” You turn ready to trudge up the stairs wearily, to disappear into the shower the way you do on these types of mornings. I let my shoulders relax at the sight of the back of your head and it’s rigid clean-cut hair. Suddenly you spin on your heels back towards me.

You hold up your finger in the scolding position.

“I almost forgot. About the party tonight…” You say. My heart leaps. Did you cancel it?

But your voice plows forward.

“I called the landscapers. They should be here in about an hour to mow the lawn. I specifically asked them to trim up the bushes by the pool, you know, over by the fire pit. We always end up by the fire pit during these parties. I want it to look nice.”

We begin the volley of information: the coward’s solution to communication. I think we’d be stars at Wimbledon. If enough words spill out between us, does that mean we’ve had a conversation?

It’s my turn. “Did you tell the caterer’s to come in through the back gate? Just in case anyone gets here early. Oh and Cheryl’s been hounding me for my famous homemade Paella recipe. You told the caterer to drop off the recipe right?”

“Yes, I did.” Your phone chirps in your pocket. You draw it out, stately as if it were a sword. You continue to speak.

“The photographer called about our anniversary shoot next week. She wants to know what kind of lighting you want, outdoor or indoor?” You say.

“I want us in a field. One with flowers, but only a few, nothing too ornamental. It has to feel…authentic…you know what, just send me her number. I’ll forward her some ideas from my Pinterest board. It can’t look too much like Cheryl and Dean’s, but I want a similar feel.” I reply.

I plunge my hand into my bathrobe pocket, feverishly handling my phone like a rosary. I remind myself to create a reminder on my phone to look for the copy of our vows. They’re in a box in the attic. There were some lines in there that you’d drawn up that would go perfectly as taglines on our photos. I imagine it: to have… to hold… sitting under a picture of us embracing while immersed in rolling fields of grass.

Which reminds me, “Can you wear something dark? I’m going to wear a white dress, very flow-y. I thought it’d be nice, the black and the white theme, you know like our wedding?”

“Yeah sounds good.” You’ve unlocked your phone. You’re fixed to it, drawn in like Narcissus to the water. It dings again and a sly smile cracks across your face. I always thought your smile was the perfect adornment to your chiseled jaw line. Your straight and narrow teeth attracted me to you first; a very important check on my list. After all, who wants a husband they can’t show off?

Your smile fades as you look back up at me. “I told everyone to be here around five.”

It’s my phone’s turn to buzz. I pull it out from the cavern of terrycloth stitched into my robe. Emblazoned on the screen is an appointment reminder. I internally scold myself for scowling as I read the words. Scowling causes wrinkles.

“Shit. I forgot about my Dermatologist appointment today.” I tell you.

“What time is that?”

“It’s at two. Shit…shit...shit…” I reply.

“What? I thought you loved those appointments. You get your facial, you’re glowing, all your friends compliment you?”

“I need another Botox injection.” I trace my fingertips over the deep wrinkle forming above the bridge of my nose. They’re canyons caused by time; a reminder of my mortality, my fallibility. “My face won’t move right for the rest of the day. I won’t be able to smile.”

You shrug and reply, “You should still go. On days like today it’s important that we look our best.” You gaze back down at your phone continuing your train of thought.

“That was the baker just now that texted.” You gesture at your screen. It doesn’t matter if I believe you. “He wants to know what flavor you want for the cake tonight. He said you forgot to specify.”

“Whatever he thinks is best. No one cares what it tastes like. As long as it looks good, that’s all that matters.” My words sound larger in our expansive dining room; in all the space between you and me.

“Alright. Don’t forget to like my anniversary post.” You hold up your phone. It’s black screen stares back at me. “I tagged you.” End match. You leave the room. Your muffled trail of footsteps echo across the house.

        You’ve left me on my own in the dining room. I stare out the large picture window across from our table. The glass is clean enough to see the reflection of our wedding photos leering behind me. Their fire red backdrop blooms against our emerald green lawn, an illusion of the light. I can almost make out your brilliant smile enclosed on that flimsy sheet of paper in the translucent ripples of the glass.

I tug at the ring on my finger, an absentminded habit of mine. The band sticks around my knuckle and claws at my skin the way handcuffs do when you try to pull yourself free.