Brutally
Honest
Lauren
swears I'm autistic. Dad reckons I suffer from
shootin'-off-my-mouth-before-my-brains-are-loaded. They're both
wrong. I'm just honest.
After
last night, though, I'm starting to question my wisdom. My eyes
were riveted on the Flyers-Bruins game when Lauren bustled in,
blocking the TV as she gasped into a dress she hadn't worn in a
year.
"Zip
me up, Norm," she said, turning while sweeping her auburn tresses
over her shoulder. The red satin, drooped like the petals of a wilted
rose, revealing my wife's freckled back. The poor zip, stuck mere
inches into its climb, valiantly clung to its tracks. Cussing and
huffing how fat she was, Lauren sucked in her tummy and rolled her
shoulders, while I pulled on the material. Slowly, I edged the zip
home, keeping an eye on the game and smiling at my bride's
comments. I was proud I'd maintained my silence and kept my
expressions parked in neutral, navigating the 'fat' minefield.
Panting,
she faced me and swept her hands down her well-packaged figure. She
looked beautiful, even if her breasts bulged from the low neckline
like balloons strangled by a red ribbon. Her face crinkled into a
smile as she took a shallow breath. "What you think?"
I
grinned, saying she was beautiful while casting a furtive glance at
the game.
She
exhaled slowly and drew in another shallow breath. "I'm gonna
wear it tomorrow night."
A
scuffle in the game dragged my attention away as I said offhandedly,
"You sure? How you gonna sing? You're havin' a hard time
breathin' as it is."
She
sighed and said, "It's kinda tight. I must 'ave put on a lot of
weight. You think I've gotten fat, Norm?"
The
scuffle had turned into a riot as both benches cleared onto the ice.
"Yeah," I said without even looking at her.
When
my mind caught up with the conversation, I gulped and gaped at my
dearest as tomato-red spread across her face. Cold blue eyes
narrowed, and she harrumphed, "You do."
"Um-yeah,
but not really fat. Just-you know-bloated."
"Bloated."
Her mouth snapped shut with a sharp click.
Oh
boy. I knew that low even tone. Lauren puffed up to let loose on me,
looking more like a seriously
hot seasoned Spring roll.
A loud rip accompanied by her breasts sagging under the loosened
neckline brought an abrupt end to what promised to be a lively
interchange. Eyes tearing, she stalked from the room, slamming the
door behind her.
My
obvious deficiencies have taught me one important life skill. To
grovel. I can grovel all day. If grovelling were an Olympic sport,
then I'd be standing on a podium. A new dress, a bouquet of flowers
and a platitude of honest endearments and by the next evening I'd
coaxed the anger from her.
We
arrive at the talent show, hosted at the civic centre for charity. I
peck my love on the cheek, wishing her good luck as she goes
backstage. I take my seat and endure skits that illicit scattered
laughs, a magic trick where a white bunny escapes, disjointed
dancing, a trombone rendition of what sounds like the anthem and then
a country singer. Her booming voice tortures Dolly Parton's Nine
to Five.
As she leaves the stage to unenthusiastic applause, I smile smugly.
Lauren's next and she'll beat the socks off everyone.
When
she makes her way on stage, I elbow my neighbours, mouthing, my
wife.
Encouraging pats buffet my shoulder as I settle to listen to her
rendition of The
Power of Love.
She starts off smoothly and a grin slides across my lips, but when
she hits those high notes...
Now,
I'm no
music lover,
but I do enjoy hearing a nice tune delivered in a pleasing way.
Lauren's high notes aren't pleasing. In fact, they're jarring,
piercing even. Cringing, I slip down in my seat as warmth blooms from
under my collar. A quick glance at my neighbours and their bulging
eyes say they share my experience. Gripping my pants legs, I endure
the highs and lows of her performance and jump up in applause when
she finishes, more from sheer relief it's over.
I
squirm through the judging and am shocked when the Dolly Parton
wanna-be takes the top prize, my poor wife's performance never
mentioned. From where I sit, I can see disappointment written all
over her rigid posture and forced smile as all the performers take a
bow. She flicks her hair, and glares at the judge as she leaves the
stage. Disappointed? Nope, I know that look and my belly turns
queasy. Angry.
Downright pissed.
She
meets me in the auditorium and hisses, "It was rigged. I knew Elmer
should 'ave never been the judge. Turns out Connie's dating his
brother. No wonder she won."
I
put my arm around her, ushering her towards the exit. "Forget about
it, honey. It's just for charity." I grin and pull her close,
whispering in her ear, "What say we get something to eat and spend
some quality
time
together?"
Her
face flushes, and she brushes her lips on my cheek. "That's
invitin'... I still can't believe she beat me, though."
"I
know, dear. I was just as surprised. She can't sing, either."
And
that's all it takes. I ought to have a lawyer
present
whenever I talk to my wife. Someone to filter my words. One word and
my evening turned from soothing love and all its promise to
grovelling. Endless grovelling.
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