An Anniversary To Remember

The darkness envelops quiet Reeding Street and with it the small dining room where I've been slaving away for the last three hours. The pasta al fresco will go cold so I'm placing it carefully in the oven -along with the garlicky asparagus and pesto.

I've called Natalie's mother to make sure Ava's arrived safely, even though I know I shouldn't do that. I don't really need the soccer mom breakfast club judgement right now, but it's hard to trust that your kid's safe when you're new to the neighbourhood. The move has been so hard on Ava that it threw me over when she came home one night and told me she's going to a sleepover with Natalie Goring's daughter. But at least that's one less thing I need to check off my list - having your kid fit in with everyone else in school.

The other thing I need to check off my list is having my husband home with me for one evening. He was off this morning before I woke up, so we didn't share one word. It seems that's the way it's going to be from now on. I knew this when I married him, I knew what I was getting myself into. Being a partner in a law firm is not exactly the nine to five job some people would be content with. I wouldn't know anyway, since I haven't had a job since Ava was born, and decided to keep it that way ever since.

'It's better for you to be home. All that stress, the running around - it's not good for you, nor Ava. She needs to learn so much stuff and I'm just not comfortable having a stranger do all that...'

That as seven years ago. I've been putting off work until quitting at the very last minute. I wanted to be a mom, that was all I knew. But I also want to be a wife. Ava is nine years old and started to gain her ounce of independence. I, on the other hand, lost contact with everything that was there before she came into his world.

My phone buzzes and I run to the kitchen counter, painfully stubbing my toe in the process. It's not him. It's my mom.

Hope everything is going well. ;) ;)

There's nothing more cringe than having your mom text you about your sex life, but I shouldn't complain here. I'm the idiot here. I told her how I browsed lacy push-up bras and teddys at La Perla for three hours. I told her about the night I've been planning for three weeks to celebrate our ten year anniversary. How he's been sending peonies every day on July the 16th, along with a handwritten card that I knew wasn't ordered by his secretary. How this day was all about us and remembering why we were still holding on - aside from having a child, a mortgage and a shared checking account. It was about people remembering what brought them together.

I put the phone down on the counter and rush upstairs to check my makeup. I try to cast aside the nagging thought that he's late and he's almost ruined the evening entirely. I think about the sexy lingerie I'm wearing underneath and about the things we'll be doing once he gets home. I fix the second layer of matte lipstick and I find myself staring at my reflection in the window. I really look good. I don't look like a mother tonight, nor do I look like a boring housewife. I look like a new woman, ready to seduce her husband all over again after ten years.

The knock on the door makes me shudder. It can't be him, he wouldn't knock, he never does. I move slowly downstairs and I hear the knock again.

'It's me' The familiar voice sends a breeze of relief throughout my body. It is him.

'Why are you knocking?' I ask while opening the door. My face must have fallen flat because I realize there are no flowers. Nothing in his hand. He seems pissed.

'The goddamn door is locked and I don't have the new set keys, remember? We said we'd make a copy but-'

'Yeah' I cut him off nervously. 'I should have done that.'

He waltzes past me and goes straight upstairs.

He doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he's supposed to say anything. I go straight after him in the bedroom. The big bluish suitcase is laying open on the bed, and he's frantically rummaging through his drawer.

'Where are my socks...' he whispers to himself.

'Um...I made dinner.' What an idiotic thing to say when your husband is packing his socks on your ten-year anniversary, Emily.

'Yeah.' He throws the two pairs he was supposed to put in the washer right in.

'I thought we'd spend tonight together...it's...'

'Look, I don't know what you're supposed to do tonight, but you can go to that book club or whatever...I have to be in Pari in five hours to meet with a client.'

In go the shirts too.

'Paris?' I say in a voice that doesn't feel my own. 'It's our anniversary, Michael.' I manage to vocalize. I don't know if he heard me or if I just said it to myself, h has no reaction at all. He just continues to pack.

'I was hoping-'

'Look' he says in a cutthroat, shuddering voice. 'I have to be in Paris and meet with a client and that's just how it is. I know you don't have much to do al day and I don't expect applause, but you have to understand-'

'I made pasta.' I mutter.

He closes the suitcase and rushes down the stairs. I go after him, no rush in my step, my blood cold and my thoughts all hazy. It shouldn't be like this though, I should be used to this. I've been clinging to this one day, this one tradition, to justify being by his side. You can't have a marriage one day a year when you have three hundred sixty-four other days of belittling and distance. Mockery. Insults. Bruises. On my ego and on my skin.

'Where is the landline? Did you call the guy yet? I need to call a freackin' taxi, my phone's dead.'

'We don't have a landline yet.' I say, staring at him.

'What do you do all day? I'll see if the damn phone is charged yet...'

I go to the oven and take the alfresco out. The asparagus will go in the trash too. I loved asparagus.

The table is set but that will go to waste too. I have to pick it all up. The plates, in the sink. The food, in the thrash. I handle the knife handle and open the drawer.

'I have one bar-'

It slides through his neck like butter. He stares into my eyes and falls down, hitting his head on the chair. Ridiculous, pathetic.

'That's what I do all day.' I mutter.