A Night to (Dis)member

The drain had been blocked for two hours, but after the third she’d managed to clear it.

She fell back, stood up over the basin and waited.

It had congealed but finally it caught suction, slurping away.

The cleaning fluid she’d used tempted her sinuses, but her eyes were already starting to dry.

When she was sure it was all gone, she stripped and stood under a warm stream.

In the shower, the residue was scrubbed off of her body. It clung to the creases in her hands and the beds of her nails, but it came away.

Exiting the bathroom, she bagged the soiled garments in preparation for later disposal, slammed the door on the stench and escaped into the bedroom. She dried off and then doused the air with new spicy smells. The lit candles emptied her mind, and the lotion soothed her muscles and she lingered just for a moment longer to enjoy the air and relish in her accomplishment.

When she opened her eyes again, she shifted her focus and recalled the task that laid ahead of her; the task of tonight. Then turning, she snuffled out each flame with her fingers. She was ready.

With a newfound energy, she pranced about, pushing furniture against one side of the wall. And then at the other, she zipped up and slipped off dresses to a playlist of drums.

Footwear, however, was a problem; it was always a problem. She considered going barefoot. But then she remembered that the downstairs floor in this new place was laminate. Slippery.

Shoes; she decided.

The jewellery box was then ransacked. She untangled her infamous pair of gold infinities and fed them through her earlobes. Her signature look.

When she was done shoving the furniture back in place having worked up a tear of perspiration, she headed to the lower floor. The air con, in no time, cooled her damp forehead.

She watched MasterChef whilst reaching for cupboards and selecting equipment. But food of that magnitude, of that calibre terrified her.

She skidded around the kitchen islands; her feet clattered in the heels that had won the toss. A deer on ice.

But it was getting late now, it was almost time.

The smoke alarm was set off by burning. A dishcloth was found, balled up and flung.

And when it was silent again, she went to collect the wine.

The glasses were set down with a bit too much pressure. The red was poured and the leftovers; necked.

The splashes of red on the pale counter triggered the thought that perhaps a darker dress would have been better for tonight.

But it was almost time.

She stood back and panned the scene. The kitchen had become hers, her creation.

And she decided; it was good.

Her iPhone pinged. The phone was grabbed, unlocked, and read.

15 minutes.

The lasagne started to puff in the hot oven. It rose, then fell and the cheese bubbled, erupting molten gold all over the Pyrex.

The steam from the oven almost blinded her. She cursed the mist, sucking scolded skin.

Then the lettuce was shredded, and the carrots grated. She pushed the wine glasses in closer.

Dinner was for two.

Everything was in place. For the task ahead.

At the mirror above the mantlepiece, she twisted her hair into a chignon. Her faithful infinities glittered back at her reflection. And as she was mouthing her mantras, the bell was pressed.

He was young. Younger than hoped, younger than expected.

He stared at her for too long when she received the bouquet. He stared at her back, her hair, her hands when she cut the stems.

Snap. Snap.

He complimented her earrings. The knot was unusual. He asked what it meant.

She shrugged knowingly; the loops jostled on her collarbone.

He took a sip from his glass sitting at the island.

The wine is good; he held it up swirling the liquid inside. He waited for her response, but she had become engaged.

He stood up.

She stopped sawing. A strand of hair fell loose beside her infinity.

She asked if he wanted another glass. He told her no.

The knife was placed back on the board.

He slid beside her and reminded her they had not yet exchanged names.

Whatever she told him now wouldn’t matter later anyway.

And when she gave him what he wanted, she looked at him for the first time. His face was one that she could study and still not know what he looked like a moment later.

He was pleased with her name; his shoulders slacked, relaxed. He sat back down. The wine flowed.

And then the room started to swell with his voice and his laughter.

The knife felt weighty. Her fingers curled tighter around it.

He asked if she'd heard his joke. But she hadn’t.

When the lasagne arrived, he lunged at it like a famished dog. She watched his head of thick wavy hair duck and dive, the cutlery chimed as he ate.

And she just sauntered around him, a smile fixed on her painted lips.

But then he swallowed and cleared his throat; So….

She was asked what she did for a living. The question caught her off guard and she froze, poised above him.

And then she remembered why she didn’t usually agree to the young ones. They asked too many questions.

He wasn’t pleased this time.

But then he was immediately grinning at the sight of dessert.

He mentioned that apple pie, one mouthful, was his favourite, another mouthful.

I know; she said simply. She had made it her job to know.

He glanced up at her, surprised.

She speaks; he laughed incredulously; what happened to your playing hard to get game?

The game’s changed.

Ooo; his tone was mocking,

She thought about it. When he lifted the next spoonful, she would do it. Quick.

But he was unpredictable; he was not like the others. The plate had already been licked clean.

Dinner was good; he complimented with a burp. And then he asked where the toilet was.

Her face shot up over the countertop. She had been loading the dishwasher, fingers selecting her tool.

A stool was pushed back, and she saw his brown loafers fly past the island.

She grabbed the one she had just cleaned and stalked after him.

He was asked where he was going.

Don’t worry, I won’t look around; he assured her.

The corridor was long and dark, but he managed to find the WC. She slowed behind him to keep her balance. Her heel click was hollow, the floor here was much smoother than the kitchen.

The WC was the size of a shoe cupboard.

He turned around and, seeing her watching, he laughed.

Are you coming in with me?

She refused politely and waited until she heard the lock slide.

And then she aligned herself flat against the wall and flexed her fingers. Sliding it out from behind her, she raised her clasped hand above her ear, twisting her chin towards the door.

He had played right into her hands.

Another lamb. Another slaughter.

It was a smaller space, but she was going to work with it. It would be swift and she hoped cleaner. Three hours; the last one had set a new record.

The lavatory chain was pulled. Then the tap started to gush. But there was a thinner noise coming from inside. He was whistling.

It was getting late now. But she had learned not to look at the clock.

The whistling was increasing; the tap was whining.

Her raised arm started to quiver; it had remembered this position. From thousands of times before. But this time, it didn’t want to remember. Not again.

But, yes again! Again, and again.

Nothing and no one could stop it, the endless loop.

But she was getting older. And slower. She was getting careless.

Suddenly, the lock.

She straightened up, cracked her neck. Then the adrenaline was pouring through her, the shine of the metal just outside of her blind spot.

The tip was an arrow; a directive, Strike there, and there, and…

The door shifted and she revolved.

The arrow launched but got caught. And the thwack of her head cut the life from her pained scream.

The knife was flipped across the floor in a cartwheel of steel, gold filigree and red.

And he was emerging from the bathroom, shaking.

He had been armed with ammonia but hadn’t needed it. She’d done it to herself.

But he stood over the splatter and waited.

And then when he was sure she was gone, he stumbled away without looking back.

He spied the knife she’d tried to stab him with ahead and avoided it, but his shoe crunched on something else.

It was only when he stopped to catch his breath outside under a streetlight, he saw it pierced to his sole.

It had been a delicate thing. It had been twisted. Like the number eight.

But now it was broken, a bloodied ensemble.

He recognised it was hers but did not recognise what it had and now symbolised.

His escape was a privilege.

Her life had ended.

And the loop had been broken.

He resolved, as he hurried away, to take up online dating instead.

“Entering her house leads to death…

The man who visits her is doomed…”

-Proverbs 2:18-19-