Brutally Honest

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.