A Stain of Frosting

It was amazing that a house so clean still smelled of dust. No matter how much she cleaned, it would always have a staleness that settled in the air. Even the house knew, it seemed, that there was no point in trying to impress the occupants. Or rather, the occupant. Two people lived there, but only one was alive. Alive implied a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose. She had lost that long ago, only her stubbornness kept her breathing.

Still, it was not her place to mope. After all, she had things to attend to. He was going to be home soon. Dinner to prepare, drinks to make sure are cold, a house to make spotless.

The table was beautifully set. Only two places were upon the worn oak, and it was picturesque. Beautiful glass bowls painted with blue forget-me-not flowers filled with savory smells decorated the dining table. The roasted vegetables were seasoned to perfection. The silverware was laid straight on the napkins lying next to the rose-embossed plates. She spent a moment admiring her handiwork, but it didn’t last long. The tell-tale sound of the front door swinging open signaled his homecoming. A chill filled the room as the cool air rushed in for sanctuary. The chimes on the porch, though soft, were persistent in their petition to be noticed as well.

He stalked inside and sat on the chair in the hallway. Like an actor with a script, he took off his shoes and placed them in the front closet. Then, off went his jacket and hat. Finally, he went straight to the kitchen sink. For exactly 63 seconds, he washed his hands. His chair scratched the floor, squealing as she pulled it out for him. Shuttling quickly and with her head down, she made it to her side of the table and began eating quietly. Only once he was enveloped by the meal did she look up to study the man she called husband.

He had become grotesque in past weeks. His hair, though there wasn’t much to speak of in the first place, was almost completely gone. Brown lesions, probably a sign of age, lined his arms and neck. He rolled his shoulders periodically. An old work wound was probably acting up. His hands were the same as always though. They were big and strong and capable of so, so much.

They finished the meal in silence until the plates had been completely cleaned. Then, she dared to speak.

“I have a surprise for you. You’ve been working very hard lately, I thought that you might enjoy a treat.”

He grunted at her and waved his hand, a clear dismissal. Obediently, she got up and went to the covered tin on the counter. When it rested on the table, she retrieved drinks. His drink was his favorite Russian concoction. Vodka with Kahlua and Frangelico made for a very strong, very good mix. Next to her plate was a large glass of milk.

Opening the tin, her masterpiece was unveiled. A round chocolate cake, perfectly frosted, shone brightly in the imagined spotlight. The top was packed with walnuts and a thin coating of powdered sugar. She slid her knife into the dessert like it was butter. When the slice of cake was placed on his plate, he wasted no time in destroying it. What was really minutes felt like hours, her eyes never leaving the man across the table from her, hands folded in her lap.

The stain of frosting was all that remained on his plate when he finally spoke to her. But she wasn’t listening. She was too focused on the saliva dripping from his mouth. Confused, he reached for his napkin and stopped with a gasp. His chair knocked over from the forced push as the man ran to the kitchen sink. He heaved, choking as blood dripped from his mouth. Shallow breaths pierced the otherwise silent room as he turned to look at his wife.

Her head was tilted, watching in curiosity.

His eyes widened as he desperately reached for the counter, but fell short. His knees hit the ground with a horrible clash, the vibrations visibly running up his body. The blood on his mouth seemed to seal the scream within his lips and he laid himself down in defeat. The image of a beautiful chocolate cake, covered in walnuts and dusted with a fine white powder, was burned into his eyes.

Smiling, her steady hand reached for the fork. With the grace of an aristocrat, she took the utensil and used the fine silver to slice a bite of the chocolate cake off the piece on her plate. She raised the delicacy to her lips and smiled as the taste filled her mouth, coating her lips and tongue. The taste of chocolate was one of her favorites, after all.