gasoline.
♦♦♦
The second time I tried to leave Karen, we were washing dishes.
I’d never been one of those husbands who couldn’t pick up a rag-- at least I had that much going for me. When we were both home, Karen and I made dinner together, and we cleaned up together afterward, with her washing and me drying.
The problem was, as far as I could remember, it was the first time we’d both been home for dinner in months. Between the nights that Karen would stay late at work, and the nights that I was too involved in my paint sets to leave my studio, I could hardly remember the last time we’d cooked together. On Karen’s alone nights, there were usually delicious,healthy leftovers in the fridge in the morning that I could heat up for lunch the next day, but when I was on my own, I usually just made instant noodles or, if I was feeling especially lazy, hotdogs. Karen had never had a problem making something nice without me around, but there was something about cooking that seemed silly to me if I was only cooking for myself.
As I watched Karen chop onions for the bolognese sauce, it occurred to me that Tammy didn’t cook at all. Her fridge at home was filled with yogurts and diet drinks, her trashcans riddled with takeout boxes.
“Fuck,” Karen cursed.
I looked up from the tomato I’d been dicing-- fresh from Karen’s gardens-- to see a flash of red as she moved a cut finger away from the knife and into her mouth. There was blood on her lower lip, and tears in her eyes-- more likely from the onion than the knife.
“Clumsy me,” she mumbled, laughing slightly. “Good thing I chose vet school over med school.”
Even with her eyes watering and blood leaking from her veins, she could still find humor in the situation. I probably would have panicked, I realized-- I hated blood-- but Karen’s calm reaction left me feeling levelheaded and capable as a result, enough that I could flip the tap on and guide her over to the cold water while I fished for a bandaid and a paper towel in the cupboard beneath the sink.
“Here,” I said, emerging with a Scooby Doo Band-aid that was probably as old as our youngest child. I blotted the blood away from the cut gently with the paper towel, then wrapped the bandage around her finger.
“Jenkies,” she smirked.
Her tongue flicked out across her lips, wiping away the red stain she’d left there and leaving a sheen of saliva in its wake. God, how I had loved those lips, still so pink and full. Tammy had full lips too, of course-- but her husband had paid for those, just like he had her nose and her cheekbones and those strange, awkward implants in her ass.
Karen turned back to chopping as if the incident hadn’t happened at all.
“No meat for the sauce-- do you mind?” she asked. She didn’t take her eyes off her work this time, so I tried not to either, though her lips were still at the forefront of my mind.
“No, that’s, uh… that’s fine,” I said.
We only made small talk over dinner. Our neighborhood was sleepy and serene as ever, save for the occasional suicide, and Karen had never been one for gossip. Tammy could chatter on and on about nothing in particular for hours, maybe even days on end, but Karen was the kind of woman who said what was on her mind when she felt like it, and could stand to listen to silence when she didn’t. It was probably why she didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood. She had no desire to put on airs and pretend to be interested in the petty lives of the people around us. Karen wasn’t always as amiable as I would have liked, but no one could ever call her ingenuine.
I planned to tell her during the dishes-- I’d worked it all out that morning. Karen, I’m thankful for our time together, but I can’t do this anymore. Karen, you’ve been so good to me, but it’s time for both of us to move on. In the foggy mirror of the bathroom after my shower, I’d
♦♦♦
The second time I tried to leave Karen, we were washing dishes.
I’d never been one of those husbands who couldn’t pick up a rag-- at least I had that much going for me. When we were both home, Karen and I made dinner together, and we cleaned up together afterward, with her washing and me drying.
The problem was, as far as I could remember, it was the first time we’d both been home for dinner in months. Between the nights that Karen would stay late at work, and the nights that I was too involved in my paint sets to leave my studio, I could hardly remember the last time we’d cooked together. On Karen’s alone nights, there were usually delicious,healthy leftovers in the fridge in the morning that I could heat up for lunch the next day, but when I was on my own, I usually just made instant noodles or, if I was feeling especially lazy, hotdogs. Karen had never had a problem making something nice without me around, but there was something about cooking that seemed silly to me if I was only cooking for myself.
As I watched Karen chop onions for the bolognese sauce, it occurred to me that Tammy didn’t cook at all. Her fridge at home was filled with yogurts and diet drinks, her trashcans riddled with takeout boxes.
“Fuck,” Karen cursed.
I looked up from the tomato I’d been dicing-- fresh from Karen’s gardens-- to see a flash of red as she moved a cut finger away from the knife and into her mouth. There was blood on her lower lip, and tears in her eyes-- more likely from the onion than the knife.
“Clumsy me,” she mumbled, laughing slightly. “Good thing I chose vet school over med school.”
Even with her eyes watering and blood leaking from her veins, she could still find humor in the situation. I probably would have panicked, I realized-- I hated blood-- but Karen’s calm reaction left me feeling levelheaded and capable as a result, enough that I could flip the tap on and guide her over to the cold water while I fished for a bandaid and a paper towel in the cupboard beneath the sink.
“Here,” I said, emerging with a Scooby Doo Band-aid that was probably as old as our youngest child. I blotted the blood away from the cut gently with the paper towel, then wrapped the bandage around her finger.
“Jenkies,” she smirked.
Her tongue flicked out across her lips, wiping away the red stain she’d left there and leaving a sheen of saliva in its wake. God, how I had loved those lips, still so pink and full. Tammy had full lips too, of course-- but her husband had paid for those, just like he had her nose and her cheekbones and those strange, awkward implants in her ass.
Karen turned back to chopping as if the incident hadn’t happened at all.
“No meat for the sauce-- do you mind?” she asked. She didn’t take her eyes off her work this time, so I tried not to either, though her lips were still at the forefront of my mind.
“No, that’s, uh… that’s fine,” I said.
We only made small talk over dinner. Our neighborhood was sleepy and serene as ever, save for the occasional suicide, and Karen had never been one for gossip. Tammy could chatter on and on about nothing in particular for hours, maybe even days on end, but Karen was the kind of woman who said what was on her mind when she felt like it, and could stand to listen to silence when she didn’t. It was probably why she didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood. She had no desire to put on airs and pretend to be interested in the petty lives of the people around us. Karen wasn’t always as amiable as I would have liked, but no one could ever call her ingenuine.
I planned to tell her during the dishes-- I’d worked it all out that morning. Karen, I’m thankful for our time together, but I can’t do this anymore. Karen, you’ve been so good to me, but it’s time for both of us to move on. In the foggy mirror of the bathroom after my shower, I’d
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