Anniversary

The house smells. Well, it does. And the roof is falling apart and the rusty door-knobs are giving me a rash. I think it’s about time we got out of here, honey.

Would you like that? Moving?

Of course you would. Sitting there next to the window all day long. Feeling the same cold breeze creep it's way into our room every morning when I carry you out of bed, and when I put you back in your chair, when I bathe and clothe you. Watching the same fireplace burning up all night.

I bet it's a drag.

You don't complain, though. You never did. And me? Well, I just need a change of scenery, is all. I’ve been working the same job for years and… You know how it is. You start out with all these hopes and expectations and then years pass and you’re still sitting in a cubicle, typing up reports and adding up numbers. Sure, maybe my desk is a little bigger now, but I’m still as bored as you are, love. Really, I am. A new place will do us both good.

Did I tell you that I have a new secretary? Yeah, her name is Sarah. We’ll get back to that later, alright?

Today is our anniversary. The first one we’ve had since it happened, isn’t it? It’s been months since the operation. I can tell you’re proud of me, love. I bet you didn’t think I’d live through a week, never mind months. Do you like how I look? I know it’s an old suit but it’s the one I wore when we first met, remember? Of course you remember. I barely fit in it now, though. I was so young back then, and now I’m rusted and weathered, just like this house. My face is wrinkled and my stand is weak. I mean, people rush past me in the street like I’m going too slow for them.

God, I miss walking with you.

Everybody would stare at us in complete disbelief, giggling and whispering like schoolgirls. “What the hell is a girl like her doing with a guy like that?” I felt like a king. I miss you so much, darling.

I mean, are you listening to me? Are you even there? Sometimes I think that you left a long time ago. Sometimes I think you’re nothing but a shell, a carcass, nothing but flesh and bones, an empty vase. I miss my wife, alright? I miss your voice. Won’t you say something? Anything—? Christ, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, honey. Just… This is exactly what I’m talking about. We should move. We really should.

Did I ever tell you that people at work never really talk to me? I’m hard to like, I guess. You’re the only one who could ever stand me. Sure, they ask me how I’m doing and whether the Goldman deal came through and whether I’m hearing anything about budget cutbacks, but I never get invited to the drink-ups and the parties. The only thing they spoke to me about that didn’t involve work was you. How are you holding up, David? And how is your wife doing, David? But they never really cared, you know? They left before I answered their questions and there were awkward silences when I did. And as time passed, they learned to never bring it up again.

Sarah is different. Sarah is nice.

She smiles at me, and asks me what I did for the weekend. She calls me Dave, and thinks I’m funny. And when she asked about you the other night I could tell she wasn’t just being nice. She cared. And so I told her what I’ve always wanted to say— That there’s good days and bad days, and that I just thank God you’re still here, instead of complaining about how much of you is actually here.

And that’s the truth, you know, babe? Because you probably think there aren’t any good days, don’t you? But believe me, honey, when I see you sitting there in your chair -the sun dimly lighting up your greyish mane, and the wind that creeps though the window playing with your night-gown, your eyes showing even the littlest sign of life-, I recognize the woman I married. My heart warms up. And even if you can’t say it, even if you can’t show it, even if you can’t think it, I know you love me back.

Sarah asked about the bad days too. I told her I didn't want to speak about that.

I’m sorry I didn’t cook, honey, but it’s kinda heartbreaking to make a meal when you know you’ll have to mash it up anyways. Don’t worry about me, I’ll eat later. Just open up your mouth and… there you go. Now swallow. Isn’t that nice? I don’t like beans myself, but you always liked these sort of thing, didn’t you? Everything you can buy up in cans you loved. And when we got inside the truck and drove across the country, and you kept trying to get me to eat those dreadful canned fruits? That was a nice trip. We stopped in the desert and ran around the empty ground, we smoked a joint and watched the stars above us. I never was much of a doper, but you could talk me into anything. Now, I just wish I knew where to get some grass. Wouldn’t that be nice? Getting high together one last time before we move away?

Yeah, that’d be nice.

I didn’t know we’d be alone when she asked me out for drinks. I thought we’d be a whole bunch of people. I swear I didn’t know it was a date or… Whatever it was. Hell, I’m twenty years older than she is, honey. How could you even think that? And I never did anything to make her believe that I’d be interested in her. God, I feel like such an idiot. Come on, just eat this. Here, let me clean your mouth.

What I miss the most is your smile. You looked so beautiful when you smiled and it’s so unfair that you’re stuck like this. Perpetually indifferent. I remember when they first rolled you out of the hospital room with your head tilted forward, and your eyes looking dead. I thought you’d say something but you didn’t. I thought you'd smile but you didn’t. You just looked at everything and recognized nothing. The scars on the side of your head are a bit less thick now. I guess the cream is working.

No, I know it tastes funny. Just swallow.

Can I tell you something? It's just that— She looked beautiful, baby. She'd gotten us a table for two, in the back of the bar. She was wearing this little black dress, and she looked amazing. Sarah’s a blonde too, and has those greenish eyes that you have. The kind of eyes that look like they’re brown, but surprise you when you get closer. Oh, God. I had a beer and she had two. We spoke of movies we both liked, and how she came to live here in the city, and what she wanted to do with herself. Everytime I brought you up she looked away and quieted down. I should’ve seen it coming. Maybe I did and didn't care. I feel terrible. When I said I had to leave, she asked me for a ride. I couldn’t say no.

I want you to know that I kissed her first. When we got to her house, she didn’t get out of the car, and she stared at me like she was expecting me to do something, but it was me who kissed her, baby. Her lips were soft. And then she got on top of me, and pushed her face against mine, and I felt her tongue inside my mouth, and her hands, so soft, so little, on my chest, and I didn’t stop her. I was so lonely, living in this old, rotten house and I just didn’t stop her. We bought that car together, honey, remember? A few weeks before we found the tumour, we had a little extra money and we bought the Cadillac. Now I had Sarah inside it.

Are you done? Was that good? I guess it’ll happen in a half-an-hour or so. I don’t think you’ll feel anything, really. I love you, honey. Now I’ve got to go and get ready myself. Don’t worry, I’ll be right there in the kitchen.

Don't get angry with the girl. We didn't really do anything. I couldn’t. I kept thinking about you as she... undid my pants and pulled her skirt up. I kept picturing you waiting for me in the house, sitting there, looking out the window. And when she touched me I was limp. I just couldn’t do it. Nobody spoke for about a minute. Then I told her I was sorry. She got out of the car, crying.

When I got back to the house, the nurse could tell what just happened. I paid her and she took the money and then showed me the silver crucifix she wore around her neck. In sickness or in health. That’s what the nurse said. I think I had lipstick in my shirt. When Monday came, I couldn’t look Sarah in the eye. It was awkward.

It’s our anniversary today, honey. This is my gift to you.

I drink it up even though it smells terribly and tastes even worse. My stomach hurts almost immediately. You're still back in the living room, sitting in your chair, but you're no longer trapped inside your body. You’re free to go wherever you like now, you’re free to say anything, you’re free to think about anything you want. The cancer can’t touch you now. And I'm laying here on the kitchen floor and I'm thinking about where we're headed and how good it'll be to see you smile again. I mean, isn't this nice? Moving away from this horrible place?

I feel cold and I don’t know what comes next, but I’m not scared, love. We’ll be together again. I think I can hear your voice already. It kinda sounds like heaven.