I decided to include an excerpt instead... just to be mean.
She had never cooked for him – not once - in their four years of marriage.
"Um…what are you doing?" Stan asked, confused.
"What does it look like, darl? I'm making you breakfast."
Stan stood there at the doorway. Was this the same person he'd been living with for the past four years?
He remembered her telling him once, how she'd rather divorce him than to become a housewife. And although the idea of divorcing seemed tempting at times, he didn't think putting 'does not cook' would look good on official forms. Plus, it didn't matter to him at the end of the day – when night fell. She was a master of the arts.
"There you go. A meal made from love." She placed the array of dishes in front of him, eagerly waiting for his response.
Did she just say…'love'? Recently, it seemed as if the matter was a taboo in normal conversations, and was to be immediately replaced by such topic as 'tax returns' and 'retirement funds'. They both agreed sweet words were to be used sparingly and definitely not during the day - it wouldn't be special during the night. And although he didn't like the idea, there wasn't much room to accommodate for his thoughts. He stared at her.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just that…I love you." He smiled.
"You haven't even tasted the food yet, darling."
He looked down at the food. "What's that?"
"Madeleines."
"You can cook…um…"
"It's French."
"I was going to say 'since when?'."
"You're thinking too much. And I'm still waiting for you to taste it. Maybe you could pack some for work."
He took a bite from the golden pastry. "Oh my god. It's delicious!"
"You think so?" She grinned.
"Yeah! You should cook more often!"
"Well, if you like it this much now, can't wait to see how much fun we can have with them tonight." She gave a suggestive wink.
He took another glorious bite. It was as if his marriage had become more meaningful all of a sudden. As much as he wanted to know how it came to be, experience had told him not to interfere with his wife's train of thought. Especially now that everything was almost perfect.
She turned to him, smiling.
Almost.
Stan knew he wasn't depressive or antisocial, but when people smiled constantly at him, it was just annoying – to the point he would have convulsions. All the doctors he visited concluded that it was nothing out of the ordinary, and he never took it more seriously than just that. Nothing bad ever came from it.
Maybe that was the reason he was attracted to her in the first place. It was true their mutual craving for sexual pleasure also made them compatible, but he knew there were other solutions - three hundred dollars wasn't a bad price for a night with one of the Swedish girls down at the red light district.
But her smile – or to be more precise – the lack of it.
When he was dating her, she would only occasionally slip a discrete smile after their wild night. It made him feel special. And even though she never smiled during the day, the look on her face at nightfall reassured his ego.
She was still smiling.
Stan tried to divert his attention away, but every time he caught a glimpse of her, she would be looking at him with that grin on her face. He started feeling suffocated. He looked at the clock.
Only 7 minutes left.
He closed his eyes. The thoughts of his dead-end job and incompetent co-workers came to mind. He could already see himself at his office, slaving away in his tiny cubicle until he retired. He chuckled at how ridiculously miserable he was. It calmed him down a bit.
He opened his eyes. She was now sitting across from him – her face unchanged.
"What's wrong, hun?" she asked.
He turned to the clock.
6 minutes left.
He stared at the second hand crawling around the white platter. Looking from the corner of his eyes, she was like a wax model – unmoving, unchanging, just smiling. He was no longer sure whether she was looking at him or not, not that it mattered. He started feeling his neck pulsating.
20 seconds passed.
He started fidgeting with his tie. His palms, moist from his sweat, took out the car keys, holding them intently. His muscles became tense.
"What's wrong, hun?" she repeated herself.
He walked out of the house.
"Um…what are you doing?" Stan asked, confused.
"What does it look like, darl? I'm making you breakfast."
Stan stood there at the doorway. Was this the same person he'd been living with for the past four years?
He remembered her telling him once, how she'd rather divorce him than to become a housewife. And although the idea of divorcing seemed tempting at times, he didn't think putting 'does not cook' would look good on official forms. Plus, it didn't matter to him at the end of the day – when night fell. She was a master of the arts.
"There you go. A meal made from love." She placed the array of dishes in front of him, eagerly waiting for his response.
Did she just say…'love'? Recently, it seemed as if the matter was a taboo in normal conversations, and was to be immediately replaced by such topic as 'tax returns' and 'retirement funds'. They both agreed sweet words were to be used sparingly and definitely not during the day - it wouldn't be special during the night. And although he didn't like the idea, there wasn't much room to accommodate for his thoughts. He stared at her.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just that…I love you." He smiled.
"You haven't even tasted the food yet, darling."
He looked down at the food. "What's that?"
"Madeleines."
"You can cook…um…"
"It's French."
"I was going to say 'since when?'."
"You're thinking too much. And I'm still waiting for you to taste it. Maybe you could pack some for work."
He took a bite from the golden pastry. "Oh my god. It's delicious!"
"You think so?" She grinned.
"Yeah! You should cook more often!"
"Well, if you like it this much now, can't wait to see how much fun we can have with them tonight." She gave a suggestive wink.
He took another glorious bite. It was as if his marriage had become more meaningful all of a sudden. As much as he wanted to know how it came to be, experience had told him not to interfere with his wife's train of thought. Especially now that everything was almost perfect.
She turned to him, smiling.
Almost.
Stan knew he wasn't depressive or antisocial, but when people smiled constantly at him, it was just annoying – to the point he would have convulsions. All the doctors he visited concluded that it was nothing out of the ordinary, and he never took it more seriously than just that. Nothing bad ever came from it.
Maybe that was the reason he was attracted to her in the first place. It was true their mutual craving for sexual pleasure also made them compatible, but he knew there were other solutions - three hundred dollars wasn't a bad price for a night with one of the Swedish girls down at the red light district.
But her smile – or to be more precise – the lack of it.
When he was dating her, she would only occasionally slip a discrete smile after their wild night. It made him feel special. And even though she never smiled during the day, the look on her face at nightfall reassured his ego.
She was still smiling.
Stan tried to divert his attention away, but every time he caught a glimpse of her, she would be looking at him with that grin on her face. He started feeling suffocated. He looked at the clock.
Only 7 minutes left.
He closed his eyes. The thoughts of his dead-end job and incompetent co-workers came to mind. He could already see himself at his office, slaving away in his tiny cubicle until he retired. He chuckled at how ridiculously miserable he was. It calmed him down a bit.
He opened his eyes. She was now sitting across from him – her face unchanged.
"What's wrong, hun?" she asked.
He turned to the clock.
6 minutes left.
He stared at the second hand crawling around the white platter. Looking from the corner of his eyes, she was like a wax model – unmoving, unchanging, just smiling. He was no longer sure whether she was looking at him or not, not that it mattered. He started feeling his neck pulsating.
20 seconds passed.
He started fidgeting with his tie. His palms, moist from his sweat, took out the car keys, holding them intently. His muscles became tense.
"What's wrong, hun?" she repeated herself.
He walked out of the house.
Driving to work with Michael Bublé on the radio, he regained control of his head. He laughed at himself, at how he almost lost his head to his wife, someone who he never thought could provoke him in that way. 'Maybe I'm imagining things.'
The END!!! NOT!!! but that's it for now. If anyone wants to read more then leave me a msg or smth and I'll email and whatnot. I gotta ask the writer first (aka. my brother).
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