Organic Pears

Once upon a time, a young girl dreamed of her wedding day. She dreamed of sparkling, white lace and chiffon, high heels, and fluffy, sumptuous cake, ten tiers high. She dreamed that, at the end of the aisle, the man of her dreams would wait to scoop her up in his arms and swing her into a thrilling life of passion and intrigue. That young girl was unfortunately me.

I thought marriage would be home-cooked meals, love by candlelight, and date nights. Instead, it’s arguing over organic pears on a Saturday night. Nine fifty-three p.m, to be precise. 

“We don’t need this organic mess,” Nick whines, tossing aside the bag of pears I’ve just purchased from the grocery store.

“Nick! You’re going to bruise the pears.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” I scoff. “I paid good money for those—”

“Which is exactly my point. Nobody needs to pay seven whole dollars for a couple of pears.”

“Fine, then you go shopping next time!” I shout, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Maybe I will!”

“Oh, like hell you will,” I scoff, suppressing a sardonic laugh. “You can’t even be bothered to make a damn PB&J for yourself.”

“I deserve time to unwind, Carly!” His face reddens as he yells.

“That’s all you ever do, Nick!” I scream, matching his volume. 

“You know what, I’m done with this,” he mutters, storming out of the room. 

My heart stills as I process his words. Done with this? Like, as in, our marriage? Or just done with the conversation? I sink to the floor, holding my head in my hands. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Wait, yes I do. I was thinking that Nicholas Torres was the most attractive guy in school. 6’4’’, luscious brown curls, and a crooked smile that would make any girl’s knees weak. It certainly made mine so. 

Nick wasn’t the typical popular dude from the movies. He was just a nice guy, admirable and considerate. He was a bagger at our local grocery store, helping elderly folks to their cars, and carrying out groceries for the disabled. He was always respectful and polite. He never cracked inappropriate or misogynistic jokes. And he always, always said “hi” to me in the hallways. 

That’s how it started, actually. You know how some girls fall for any man who gives them the time of day? Well, that was me. And sixteen-year-old Carly somehow got it into her head that Nick’s daily “hellos” meant something more. 

“Hello?” Marilyn said. “He’s just trying to get in your pants, Car.”

“He’s being nice,” I argued. 

“Most guys are,” Marilyn noted. “Up until the big bang.”

Nick wasn’t like that, though. We didn’t even have sex until our junior year of college — three whole years of dating. And he didn’t abandon me, not then, and not now. 

I stand from the floor and swipe the salty mess from my face. I’m being ridiculous. 

“Sacrifice is necessary, mija,” Mama had said.

And sacrifice I would. I don’t need organic pears, I decide. I march down the hall to Nick’s office and try the door. Locked. I knock. It’s a quiet knock, one devoid of any confrontation. No answer. 

I’ll give him some space for the night, I think. 

I head upstairs to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and tuck in for the night. And when I wake up, I reach across the bed, feeling for my husband. I brush my hand over empty sheets. 

My heart twists in my chest a little. I wrap myself in my pink, terry-cloth robe and head downstairs. I try his office door again. Still locked.

“Nick,” I call. “Please open the door. This is silly.”

Nothing. I try the door again. 

“Nick!” I shout. “Stop being a bitch and open up.”

The house is eerily silent. I can hear its bones settling, creaking. 

“Fuck this,” I say. “I’m getting the key.” 

I storm down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I dig through our junk drawer. After rifling through a mound of various empty tape dispensers, old, loose batteries, and pens, I finally find the key to the office. 

I insert the key into the doorknob and wiggle it around until I hear a click. And then I swing open the door, prepared for another blowout. But all I see is my husband, motionless on the ground.

“Nick!” I scream. I race to him, drop to my knees. I feel for a pulse — nothing. His wrist is cold. He feels foreign and gray. He’s not my Nick. 

My fingers shake as I dial 911. And then I see it. The air from the box fan on the floor blows it right into my path. 

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage, it reads. And the petitioner? Nicholas Hamilton Torres. 

“Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?”

“Fuck,” I whisper as tears coat my throat.

“I’m sorry? Do you have an emergency?”

I hang up the phone and sit in silence. How long? How long had he been planning this? Every time he looked at me, kissed me, touched me. It was a lie. 

I let the quiet hang over me, and I bask in the hum of the box fan. Then I lose it. I bang my fists on the carpet and scream as loud as I possibly can. I scream until my chest burns and aches and my throat is raw. 

Our last fight — before the pears — was over children. Nick wanted them, I didn’t.

“Honey,” he said. “I’m just saying, we don’t have much time.”

“I’m wasting away, Nicholas,” I mocked him. “I’m thirty-fucking-five, not geriatric.”

“You always do this,” he snapped.

“Always do what?” 

“Twist my words,” he replied.

“And you,” I said, pointing a finger. “Are trying to twist my arm.”

“I’m not!” he cried, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I’m trying to reason with you.”

“Yes, reason with the hysterical woman!” I shouted.

“If the shoe fits!” he screamed.

“You would be a terrible father,” I uttered.

It was the first time I watched him cry. The truly sad part? I enjoyed it.

Sirens cut through my thoughts. I jump and wipe my nose with the heel of my hand. 

A knock sounds at my door, and I stand. I open the door for the officers, explain the situation, give my statement. No, I didn’t kill him. But I almost wish I had.