Happy Ending

Happy Ending

         It began with a man walking down a street; body huddled underneath his large coat, seeking warmth. It was dark, cold, and the drizzle of ugly snow did nothing to promote a nice, happy beginning. A dark object banged against his thigh, heavy in his pocket, reminding him of its presence and how well its handle would fit into his large hands.
         There was a tension between his shoulders, it didn’t really matter how it got there. Could have been a long day at work, or the thought of paying the bills, or even the nights he spent with his wife and her incessant nagging, but it was there all the same.
         Opening the door to the tiny, one bedroom apartment he heard his wife in the kitchen. The smell of must greeted him, as it always did, and the sound of static filled his ears, its white noise a reminder of somebody too lazy to flip a switch to turn the TV off.
         Where the hell have you been, she said; A knife waving around in her hands.
         None of your business, I just wasn’t here, he said.
          He turned to the living room, and sat on the sagging couch, a hand in the pocket containing the dark object that fit his grip so well. He looked at her and felt nothing at all.
         Her long hair hung limply around her small face, the style it had once been forgotten in the years since “I do” and “peace.” Her dress hung from bony shoulders as if a sheet had been draped across them. Its once flowing and flower print now a dark, discolored mess, its stains and dirt indiscernible between the two. An anger flashed through her dull, unremarkable eyes.
         Get your ass off of that couch, she said, Go do something
          No
         Why you son of a bitch, I swear to God…..
         Get the hell out of my face woman, he said; she cut off her ranting, the sound of white noise loud in their ears. She stared at him, eyes wide, afraid, the fear could almost be tasted on the tip of the tongue, which did nothing to help promote a nice happy beginning. He watched, as the fear filled with anger, as if that one emotion had put fire into her heart, and she suddenly looked so alive.
         Leave, she said, her arm holding the knife pointing his way to the door.
         He stared at her, mouth slightly agape. Standing up, he swung his hand in her direction, and it was her turn to stare; her hand that had dropped the knife coming to her face to touch the sting. Her wide eyes looked at her husband, his face red in anger, and his shoulders slowly rising and falling as his clenched jaw drew in air.
         I said to get out, her voice quivered, the anger leaking into her speech. Turning on her heel, she picked up the knife and set it in the kitchen sink. She went about her business as if everything were normal, rinsing the spaghetti and stirring the sauce. A tension sat between her shoulders, glaring its ugly eyes at the man who stood in the living room, the feeling of which did not promote a nice happy beginning.
         He glanced as she set the table for one, and took a step forward as if to say he really did want to stay.
          I thought I told you to go, she said her back still turned to him.
         Okay, I’ll go… his hand curled around the handle of the gun.
          And the sound that echoed through the apartment did nothing to promote a nice, happy beginning.