Life's Little Changes

Life’s Little Changes

         




Standing in front of my refrigerator, reading the note my husband had supplied left no doubt. He was going to be home at the same time—again. An audible groan escaped me. Nothing ever happened which changed his life or perfect punctuality … or it seemed mine either as I stood, something I did every morning, and hoped a paper reminding me of his insipid existence didn’t mar the perfect stainless sheen of the fridge.          

An unusual aspect of this note however, was it being affixed to the door by a band-aid. Not only did the band-aid hold the note, but both held smears of blood. This, too, explained in his boring missive. He’d cut his finger while preparing breakfast and used what he could find in the kitchen for the cut and message. A two-fer he’d proudly and profoundly exclaimed in the note. Could the man get any more inane? My two-fer would have included him suffering a paper cut to his carotid and he’d bled out while setting the coffee timer, or egg timer, or any other timer he possessed, which lay around the house in precisely measured footage, as if the alarms led to the Holy Grail of time continuum.

I snatched the band-aid off the fridge door and rubbed the lingering adhesive with the tail of my nightgown until the tape smudge disappeared. If only I would wipe him out as easily. I was dumping him, along with all the other items of tedium he brought to our lackluster marriage. The man never altered his existence. Change would be something he’d have to well, change. Behavior modification wasn’t located anywhere near his to do list. Life to him was just one step in front of the other … one day after another … monotony eked out in daily increments. He was the same with his job, that never-ending sameness which defined him.

The smell of food drew my attention from killing Stewart. I sat at the table and raised the shiny silver dome he’d placed over breakfast. Wednesday—bacon, eggs, and wheat toast, each piece of toast cut into precise wedges surrounding the eggs in a pattern reminiscent of an Aztec Sun Stone. At least the bacon hadn’t been forced into a grim smile sitting below over-easy egg eyes. No, these slices were crisply cooked and framed the toast points as if they were soldiers protecting against the onslaught of jam. A shake of my head to attempt releasing the visual didn’t work. Every Wednesday I stared at the portrait of my breakfast. Tomorrow would hold another staid meal—steel cut oatmeal with raisins to offset the cholesterol of Wednesday’s meal. The raisins always reminded me of rat dung slung onto gray clumps of gelling concrete, but the scent of apple wood smoked bacon made the gray thoughts of Thursday dissipate. I’d deal with tomorrow’s meal when it happened or not at all if I could get Stewart gone. I picked up a fork and dismantled the frame, stabbed an egg eye and watched it bleed yellow onto the toast wall, and then dug into breakfast with delight. I had to admit Stewart was a good cook and I’d miss his meals but I could always hire a chef who wouldn’t plan my meals as if we were still on a grade school monthly menu. As I ate, I imagined my new life with something other than the mundane mucking it up.

A package dressed in plain black and white striped paper sat on the table alongside the silver dome. Huh, prison clothing for packages. Another rudimentary aspect of Stewart’s unbridled whimsy. I was to open it after I’d finished my meal. No problem, it was probably a clock of some sort to remind me I lacked time management. I smeared blackberry jam on a toast point, popped it in my mouth and savored the melting berries across my tongue. I laughed. Right, I’d dutifully finish my last obedient act before walking out.

While a pot of tea brewed I opened the package. The letter inside the box was written on heavy bond paper, nothing like the cheap tablets scattered around the house for Stewart’s constant communiqués. I took a double take at the handwriting to make sure he had actually written the note. This handwriting was free-flowing, unlike his usual pinched chicken scratch scrawl. Just a few words written in beautiful penmanship which rang with a resounding death knell as I read.

“I hope you have enjoyed your last breakfast, Robin. You’ve been poisoned. I know you’re now trying to figure out which part of the meal was lethal. It doesn’t matter. There isn’t time to figure anything out, least of all which morsel held your death sentence. There is no antidote and there will be no trace evidence left when or if you’re found. When you read this I’ll be on my way to a new life without you. You’ve bored me our entire marriage. So, as you think about the outcome of this meal I will let you dwell on the fact I’ve been having an affair for nineteen years. I could never get away from your clinging monotony, thus this final action. The phone is disconnected. Your car is gone, although you won’t have time to get to either before you die. Have a happy eternity. No one deserves it more.”

As I reread the note my breath came in short gasps, my hands and feet going numb while blood flow raced to my heart as my body went into fight or flight survival mode. The paper fell from my hand, landing on the empty breakfast plate still in front of me. My eyesight was failing but not before I witnessed the words disappearing from the heavy paper. This wasn’t a trick of lighting or death, but a well thought out plan using disappearing ink to deliver the final blow. I gazed inside the box as a searing pain sliced through my brain. A silver bell sat perched on a red velvet pillow, its inscription plain and in large print. "Defer not time, delays have dangerous ends." - William Shakespeare.