Black Cat Journal

the key jingles in the lock. the steady footfalls of a tired man. i can imagine him placing his briefcase by the door while hanging his coat and hat. he breathes deep the nourishing aroma of a healthy home made meal. he takes comfort knowing i will emerge from the kitchen bearing an ice cold martini, place it in his hands, lead him to his recliner, and ease him into his domesticated throne.

dry martini in hand, i smooth my hair, retie my apron, glance around my newly painted avocado kitchen and head out into the living room.

i halt in the foyer, eyes locked with a blonde, her arm hooked over the elbow of a handsome pinstripe suit, my husband. her tinkling laugh an assault on the pristine serenity of tangerine and butter yellow wallpaper. slowly lowering the martini, small steps taking me closer to the offensive blonde, my husbands startled eyes meet mine. the blonde titters as i grip her arm and lead her out the door.

he looks at me defiantly. he redistributes his weight, anxiously, like a child awaiting punishment. “i’m a man. it’s 1968, i think i should be able to do what i please, i’m a man…”

“with all due respect henry, just when did i say you could think?” i place my hand on his arm and guide him to his recliner. “now, why don’t i go make you a fresh martini?”

“yes dear.” he whispers to my already retreating figure.



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