Allan Guthrie
Call Me, I'm Dying
7:15 p.m.
Every year on the fifth of June we pretend we’re married. This year is no different.
I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.
“I’ll get the soup,” he says, getting to his feet.
Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.
I don’t know, I’m guessing. I don’t cook. I don’t want to cook. I’m not paid to cook.
James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.
Doesn’t bother me.
I’m easy, so they say.
The food is a bonus.
Makes the sex easier.
* * * *
7:16 p.m.
“You need a hand?” I ask him, knowing how he’ll reply.
I’m dandy.
Sure enough. From the kitchen: “I’m dandy.”
He’s not that.
Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and he’s wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.
Could have made an effort.
We’ll shower later.
I always insist on that.
* * * *
7:17 p.m.
He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, I’d ladle it out in the kitchen.
It’s not me.
If it was me, I’d have passed on the appetizer, gone straight for the main course. Takeaway pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.
Each to his own, okay?
He places the pot on the table, takes off the oven gloves, removes the lid with a dramatic gesture and says, “Voila! French onion.”
Now there’s a surprise.
“Smells good,” I say. And I shouldn’t be harsh on him. It does smell good.
* * * *
7:18 p.m.
“There we are,” he says. “Shall we say Grace?”
I nod.
Then he hits me with thisyou orme thing, where he’s just being polite ‘cause we both know it’s not going to be me. I grew up with it, and look how I’ve turned out.
“On you go,” I say.
He nods, clears his throat, closes his eyes, adopts a tone somewhere between respectful and agonized. “For what we are about to receive,” he says, “may the Lord make us truly thankful.”
That’s it. Good.
I blink. Pretending I’ve had my eyes closed too.
He’s not fooled, but he joins in the game anyway.
It’s all a game.
I always win.
I don’t think he understands the rules. I’d ask him but I can’t be bothered. I just want to get this over with.
I have things I’d rather be doing.
I’m liable to yawn and I don’t want to upset him.
* * * *
7:19 p.m.
“Nice?” he asks.
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Lovely.”
“The key is to use plenty of butter.”
That’s it.
I lower the spoon, let it rest in the bowl. I’m not taking another sip. Butter. Plenty of it.
Is he trying to kill me?
I smile.
He smiles back. His hand edges across towards me
“You don’t mind?” he says.
Intimacy. Yes, I do mind. But I let him hold my hand anyway.
* * * *
7:20 p.m.
“Your soup’s getting cold,” he says.
Fine by me.
“Not having any more?”
“Saving myself for the main course,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says, disappointed but understanding.
Makes me want to smack a frying pan off his jaw.
At least he’s let go of my hand.
I get a flash of him panting. In my ear. Sticky breath, getting faster and faster. I’m moaning, telling him he’s the best, oh, yeah, the fucking best.
He likes it when I swear.
He comes and then he cries.
Wets my hair.
Every time.
Every year.
After dessert.
* * * *
7:21 p.m.
He’s talking. He’s bought a boat. Not a fancy yacht, oh no. He laughs. Tells me about his boat.
I nod and smile, tuned out, wondering what I’m missing on TV.
White noise, his voice.
I smile from the heart, ‘cause that rhymes.
Get a smile back, bless him.
I wonder if he’ll be hard or if I’m going to have to play with him first.
* * * *
7:22 p.m.
So excited babbling about his new boat, he spills soup on himself.
I grab a napkin, dab at his chin.
He likes that.
I wonder what precedent I’ve just set.
He excuses himself, says he has to change his shirt.
At least he doesn’t ask me to do it for him.
I offer to clear the plates away.
He won’t let me.
Always the gentleman.
* * * *
7:25 p.m.
Back again wearing an almost identical shirt.
Took him long enough.
I heard the toilet flush, though. All that soup. Runs right through you.
Voila!
Must be the onions.
“You had enough?” he asks.
“Plenty,” I say, only just managing to keep my hand from patting my stomach. A false gesture if ever there was one and I’m a better actress than that.
“Sure you don’t want a hand?” I ask as he starts clearing away the plates.
“Just stay where you are,” he says. “Keep looking beautiful.”
* * * *
7:27 p.m.
Still smarting from that comment.
Beautiful.
Bastard.
* * * *
7:28 p.m.
The casserole dish is on the table, steaming.
Beef stew. Yep, same as last year.
Predictable, is our James the Sarcastic.
Smells good, though. I’m going to have to eat.
I don’t want to. I want to punish him.
He might like that.
“Shall I be mother?” he says.
We know he’s going to be mother. I don’t know why he asks. “Yeah,” I say. It’s a role that suits him.