Perfect

PERFECT

“Not today Frank, please. It’s too hot.”

         Frank glares at me, his perfectly shaped brown eyes penetrating my thoughts, sending a shiver of fear down my spine.
         “You know what I told you Colleen; you’ll wear the gloves until the day before my parent’s anniversary party. Go on; get to the shops before all the best stuff’s been picked over.”

         “But Frank, I look ridiculous wearing gloves in this weather. Everyone stares at me as if I’m crazy.”

         “Remember when everyone stared because you were so amazingly flawless? That’s the woman I married and that’s the woman I want back. No more arguments and pick my suit up from the cleaners on the way back."

         There’s no point continuing the debate. I’m tempted to tear off the stupid gloves and deposit them in the nearest waste bin but know what would happen if I did. It sounds ridiculous I know; a grown woman being dictated to in this day and age but not everyone has a husband like Frank.

         My thoughts drift into the past as I make my way to the small shopping centre in town, doubled under a heavy load of self pity. Head down, eyes focussed on the paving stones but still painfully aware of the questioning glances of passers-by. What sort of girl wears gloves in the middle of summer? Ask him I want to scream.

         Frank and I enjoyed a whirlwind romance at university and I foolishly wanted a wedding ring on my finger before anyone else succeeded in snapping him up. I remember the best man at our wedding describing us as the ‘perfect couple.’ Within weeks I realised Frank’s idea of perfection was to dominate our lives and that he would go to twisted, bizarre extremes to satisfy his ambitions. It was not, as I’d imagined a marriage made in heaven, more in error.

         Just a few weeks after the wedding I discovered my husband was not the unblemished man I’d believed him to be. We, or rather he, purchased a compact new house on a private estate. Frank insisted he’d earn enough to keep us both so I’d not sought employment. I thought it rather sweet and old-fashioned of Frank; wanting me to stay at home and I was quite prepared to channel my energies into creating domestic bliss. One afternoon, satisfied all chores were completed for the day I sat watching an old weepy on the television when Frank burst through the door like a shell from a cannon.

         “There’s some dust on the hall table,” he bawled almost hysterically, his perfect, full lips trembling as if he’d discovered a corpse. I tried to laugh it off but after a while I realised our home must be as spotless and sterile as an operating theatre to avoid Frank’s wrath.

         Then the day I burnt the evening meal; it was only a sharp clip on the cheek but enough to convince me Frank has a real problem. He punished my incompetence by arranging for his mother to stay with us until I’d learnt to cook real family meals. I’ve never had time for my mother-in-law and partly blame her for Frank’s behaviour; raising him to believe he’s the perfect male specimen and nothing is good enough for him, especially me.

         My cooking improved as the relationship deteriorated but providing the house was cleaned daily from top to bottom and there were no culinary disasters, life was tolerable. After the birth of our second child however, Frank’s obsessive criticism turned personal.

         “You’re out of shape, Colleen. You’ve put too much weight on and your figure’s getting flabby. It won’t do, you know.” Tears stung my eyes but I wasn’t brave enough to argue that it wasn’t his perfect body that had endured the trials of pregnancy and childbirth.

         Under Frank’s supervision I was forced to take up rigorous exercise routines; producing top quality meals for the family whilst existing on rabbit food myself. Both my weight and self esteem plummeted but that was not to be the end of it. For my next birthday, Frank presented me with an appointment for cosmetic surgery, silicone implants. He may as well have written ‘Your tits are too small,’ on the accompanying birthday card. There was no pleasing this man it seemed.

         I know, I should have left him but you tell me where an unemployed mother of two young children turns? And I suppose, deep down, I hoped Frank would soon be satisfied and all this would stop.

         Physically, I was nearing the perfect image Frank desired, but mentally and emotionally I was falling apart. Had cigarettes or alcohol been allowed in our home I suspect I’d have turned to them to calm my frayed nerves. Instead, without even realising, I began to bite my fingernails. Only lightly and occasionally at first, but soon seizing every opportunity to sink my teeth into what was left of my nails and the flesh surrounding them. Of course, it wasn’t long before Frank noticed, almost resulting in a cardiac arrest. Hence the gloves; I’ve had to wear them now, day and night throughout the longest, hottest summer on record. It’s been so uncomfortable and embarrassing.

         All the time I’m loading the groceries into my basket I can feel the eyes of the check out girl and other customers on my covered hands and I can’t escape the shop fast enough. Similar reactions at the dry cleaners where I hastily pick up Frank’s suit; it didn’t need cleaning, it was immaculate when I brought it in, though not in the eyes of Mr Impeccable. How I wish something or someone would damage his perfect appearance for once.


Two weeks later we sit around his parent’s perfect mahogany dining table, surrounded by immaculate crockery and food. The discussions rarely include me; I’m just here as a decoration, complete with impeccably manicured and painted nails. Frank seems happy, his mother gloating over his faultless appearance and ignoring eye contact with me. I’m bored and frustrated; anger and resentment bubbling like molten lava underneath my calm, polished exterior.

         Later that night, Frank rolls his perfectly toned, tanned body onto mine. There’s a moment’s hesitation before he announces, “Aren’t you glad I made you beautiful again? Maybe you could do with a tummy tuck though.”

         My scarlet talons find his face in the dark. He will carry the scars from the scratches on his cheeks for the rest of his life and I will carry on my life without him. Perfect.