_-_-_-_-_

My eyelids slit to inky surroundings. An even darker black than usual. Did the universe get wind of my plans for today? 

I consider things for a moment, like how he used to leave a nightlight on near our bed. “I want to be able to see your pretty face while you sleep,” he’d say, always sleeping facing me. His words were like a caress across my skin. Now, I lie for minutes before the silhouette of his backside takes shape before my eyes. 

I’m acutely aware of the passing time and slip out from under the covers, retreating to the bathroom before the birds appear and sing their happy songs. How they taunt me! 

They’re free; I’m not. 

I quietly close the door, turn the lock, and sit atop my throne. I laugh inside myself at the ridiculousness of it all. He’d promised I’d live like a queen, only I didn’t think my throne would be a toilet seat. This is the only place I can find privacy from his ever-watchful eyes. Eyes that make me small—so small I fear I’ll disappear completely one day. 

Bending to reach under the sink, I retrieve my journal hidden by towels. I’m grateful to the therapist for suggesting that I journal my thoughts. Today, especially.

I unclip the pen and write my plans for the day as if they have already come to pass. I whisper the words aloud. Feel the weight of the words. Do I move forward or reconsider? 

Too bad I had to get rid of that therapist. 

Somehow, and I still can’t figure it out, he got to her. She turned on me, starting to rattle off words like “emotionally unstable” and telling me she was “concerned.” However, as I mentioned, journaling was a good idea that I kept.

A light peers underneath the door, warning me he’s up. I hide my journal and flush the toilet. The queen must now make him the perfect breakfast, and pray I don’t break the yolk while flipping. 

_-_-_-_

In the beginning, marriage was a comfortable blanket to me… before it became a straitjacket. 

With a grimace and shudder in my bony shoulders, I pluck an olive from the jar and place it in a plastic bag, then drop it into my purse.

You see, I was simply too young—a naive love-struck girl—to realize the effects of his promises. Promises that I’d never have to work. Promises he’d take care of us. The results of his lure: I have nothing for myself and no say in anything. He made me weak—too weak to survive a nasty divorce. Reduced me to a house slave, only enjoying what my master invites me to enjoy. 

Where’s the adventure we talked about? Only one of us lives it now. He travels. I’m stuck at home with the mundane. 

And then there’s the olives…

The most unbearable part of each day is after dinner, when he sits in his chair and requests a martini. I promptly make it and take my place beside him in the less comfortable chair. He bares his teeth and slides the olive off the end of the toothpick, then looks at me, opens his mouth, and chews it, turning the green bits to mush. As my stomach churns, he spits the pit onto the napkin with a loud ptooey!

I’m the olive, I think.  

What happened to that tie that was supposed to bind us forever? It unraveled, that’s what happened. But as I said, divorce is not an option. So, I’m only left with one recourse. You must understand, he caused this. 

Does he think I’m stupid? I see how his secretary Veronica’s eyes laugh at me when I visit his office—her smug expression. My mind sees her tangled up with him in many positions—not the dutiful-wife positions that I still occupy, but more vulgar. 

So what does one do with oneself on a day like today, leading to a night like tonight? This night that I’ve been anticipating for so long. 

I need to get outside. Yes, that’s it. Fresh air will do me good. Maybe a walk across the pedestrian bridge. Summer is ending. Fall—the season of change—is nipping at its heels. Change. That’s the word of the day. 

I slip a vial hidden in my jewelry box into my purse. It nestles against the olive. Cupping both brings a flutter to my tummy.

I leave the house in my favorite yellow dress and walk along the sidewalk several blocks towards the bridge. Along the way, I pass the flowers, always prettying up the brownstones. I pause at a basket of purple petunias and bend to pinch off some dead blooms. Everyone knows you need to do that to make way for fresh flowers. 

I smile. 

That’s what I’m doing tonight—pinching off a dead bloom. 

With a new bounce in my step, I continue my walk to the pedestrian bridge. My hand reaches inside my purse and retrieves the olive. It’s still in the bag, but I roll it between my fingers until I reach the bridge's highest point. I remove the olive and hold it up in the sunlight: such an ugly fruit, an unflattering, drab green. And then there’s the repulsive pit. I shudder, replaying him spitting it over and over and over onto the napkin. 

It's all too unsettling, so I don’t merely squish it in my hand, but bash it against the railing, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it until its insides are smeared on the bridge. But, I don’t stop there. I scrape the mess off the ground with my fingernails and fling it over the railing, leaning forward to watch it hit the water, then disappear with the current. 

_-_-_

Hearing the front door open and shut, I smooth the wrinkles in my dress and approach him from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I lie. “Would you like a martini?”

The tight line of his lips turns up at the corners in a peculiar way. “That sounds nice,” he simply says. 

I return to the kitchen and pour two martinis. My hands are remarkably steady considering. I retrieve the white powder vial from my purse, empty the contents into one of the glasses, and swirl the liquid around and around. It will be briefly painful before the heart stops. The coroner will say it was a heart attack. 

I release a deep breath and return to the family room with the two martinis. I place them on the side table and sit down. He doesn’t look at me while reaching for a glass. He brings it to his lips, then stops. His head slowly turns, eyes rolling up to meet mine. My heart starts to pound beneath my breast. Just drink it!

Time crawls in these moments. I fear he hears my heartbeat. 

“Did you forget something?” His tone is surprisingly pleasant. 

His olive.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” I scurry away to the kitchen. 

I retrieve an olive from the jar in the refrigerator and slide it onto a toothpick before returning and plopping it into the drink beside him on the table. 

He brings the glass to his lips, thin lips that kiss the rim, yet stops again. There’s something in that moment of silence that I can’t put my finger on. I hold my breath until I feel ill. But then, he extends the drink toward me, “Cheers to my lovely, devoted wife.” 

I clink my glass against his and we both take a sip. Then another. And another. 

I risk a glance at him to find him staring. Our eyes lock. A smile—something he’s kept hidden from me—crosses his face. It’s faint at first, but quickly spreads. The deep creases around his mouth soften him. Oh my God, is there still love inside him?

A moment of regret flickers. Have I misjudged him? Is there still hope for us?

I’m about to knock the drink from his hand when my heart seizes. I drop my glass and grasp my chest. The pain grips me with a force that rolls me out of my chair onto the floor. 

The hand not clawing at my heart reaches for him, stretching, grasping at nothing but the unmoving air between us. 

He kneels beside me, giving me a moment of hope before he bares his teeth and slides the olive off the end of the toothpick. Opening his mouth, he gnaws around the pit, then spits it onto my face. 

“You really shouldn’t have written down all your thoughts in that journal.”

He smiles. 

I hear the happy birdsong penetrating the window pane, and one last thought occurs.

I smile back at him. 

I’m free.

_-_