Bittersweet release

His birthday is coming up, and I want to make up something special.

He’s been working hard lately. Maybe too hard. I hardly see him anymore.

The thought seems to upset me as I grab the bowl tightly and start stirring more vigorously.

As some of the batter started flying out of the bowl, I took a deep breath and set it down.

Gathering the rest of the ingredients for the chocolate cake I was making him, I wrestled with my thoughts as to why the thought of him working so hard upset me. He was working hard for me after all. His long hours at the office allowed me to focus on chores at the house, to provide me with plenty of me time to pamper myself, and when I get really bored, to start some project. Last time it was pottery.

Now the same pottery wheel rests unused in the garage, gathering dust and spider webs.

I place the rest of the ingredients on the counter, realizing how upset I was becoming again.

It seemed no matter what I did for him, no matter what I did for the community, no matter what I did for myself, I was unfulfilled. I lay in bed restless at night, unable to sleep. As I do, I look at him, lying by my side, sleeping like a baby while snoring like a pig. He wakes up early every day, seemingly refreshed and recharged, and all I can think is, how dare he!? He gives most of his time to some nameless corporation, with the reset divided between gym, reading and myself, and all I can think is how dare he not devote more time to me. To make matters worse, he does not seem to feel that we are not spending enough time together.

I take the cake pan out of the oven, switching the oven on to preheat. I place the rest of the ingredients in the bowl and resume stirring.

My thoughts wander back to my previous train of thought. How busy he is. How content he seems to be with our current state of affairs. How dare he take me for granted! I mean, sure, we go out once a week, he buys me flowers occasionally and thoughtful gifts for my birthday and anniversary. I look down at the diamond studded bracelet he got me for our last. Thinking I should take it off before it gets dirty, or worse, lost in the cake, I reach for the clasp to open it. Struggling to undo it I become exasperated, my breathing quickens, I struggle clumsily, with one hand to open the bracelet, until when I finally open it, I throw it against the wall in frustration! Maybe I should have lost it in the batter, all the better for him to choke on it!

Realizing what I just thought to myself, I sink down to my knees and start sobbing. This goes on for a while until my tears dry up. I look up at the clock. Just enough time to finish the cake and get dressed up for him. I pick myself up, pour myself a glass of merlot to calm myself. Downing the wine in one shot, I pour myself another and pour the cake batter into the pan. Glancing over, it hasn’t quite reached the required temperature.

I sit down and sip my second glass of wine, when a sudden thought occurred to me. The oven is too hot for me to stick my head in. I shake my head as if to shake the very thought out of it. What is wrong with me? I have everything and here I am thinking of an escape! Am I feeling trapped? Trapped by what? I have my own car. I can go anywhere. But what if I go and do not come back. He will be worried. He will be upset. Or worse, he will not even care! What the hell! How dare he not care! How dare he make me feel that I need to escape! I’ll show him!

The oven beeps, signaling it is ready. I walk over and grab the cake pan and bring it over to the oven. I pause before putting the cake in. What if I make the cake extra special? Make it good enough to be the last cake he will ever eat? I put the pan down and head over to the garage. A while back we had a rat problem, should be some of the poison lying around. I bring the poison in, pour a scoop into the batter, and mix it up. Wondering what I should do to cover the smell and flavor, I look around the kitchen. The liquor cabinet catches my eye. Maybe one of his favorite bourbons? I pour some over the poison and stir it thoroughly into the mixture. I stick the pan into the oven and start the timer. And now for the glaze, I gather all the ingredients, making sure to mix in some of the poison and bourbon in, putting both away.

As the timer on the cake goes off, I glance at the clock, still some time left. I take the cake out to cool and go upstairs to get ready. I figure I will put on something sexy, distracting, and mournful. No need to celebrate what is about to happen. I finish touching up my makeup, head back downstairs and pour myself a third glass of merlot to keep me company while I glaze the cake.

The cake comes out beautifully if I do so say so myself. The added ingredients to the glaze seem to make it extra smooth and glistening. Out of habit, I stick my finger in the bowl and bring it to my mouth, only to snatch it away at the last second!

I hear his car pull up the driveway, so I carry the cake to the dining room table and hide behind the front door. He calls out to me as he walks in, “honey! Something smells good.” I step in behind him and cover his eyes with my hands. “Now that smells even better.” He says, flirting. I guide him towards the table and sit him down in front of his cake. “don’t open your eyes yet” I tell him as I light the candles on the cake. “Go ahead sweetie, make a wish.” He opens his eyes, notices the candle, “The cake looks great.” He says, leaning in, he blows out the candle.

I clap my hands enthusiastically and yell “Happy birthday!” I take the candle out and suck off the glaze seductively, reminding myself that I just need to make sure to have enough so he does not get suspicious, and lay it down on the table. I cut him a generous slice of the cake and place it in front of him. I pick the spoon he is reaching for, scoop up some of the cake, and bring it to his mouth. “Delicious,” he says, “and different.” Worried for a moment, “Can you guess what makes it different?” I asked. “Did you spike it?” he asks amused. “With your favorite bourbon.” I answered with a naughty look. I scoop up a tiny piece of cake for myself, and another healthy, pardon the pun, serving for him.

Before long the slice is gone, with him having eaten most of it. “I feel so tired,” he says, getting up from his chair, “I think I’ll go make us some coffee so we can carry on with the festivities.” He wobbles towards the kitchen. I sit down in his warm chair, I can feel the drowsiness he mentioned, and a slight feeling of vertigo, but considering the amounts we ate, he has the worst of it. I hear him fumbling in the kitchen for a cup, hear the coffee machine heating up, and suddenly a thud and a crash as clearly he keeled over. I smiled wearily, struggled to my feet, took the remaining cake to the kitchen, stepping over his body on the way to the sink. Carving up the cake into small pieces, I flip on the garbage disposal. The sudden noise causes him to jolt, but not wake up. I dump the cake down the drain a piece at a time and wash all the dishes that I used to make and serve the cake.

As I finish cleaning, I kneel down beside him and check his pulse, it comes through weak and rapid through his clammy skin. Figuring I’ve waited long enough, I reach for my phone and dial 911 for emergency services. As I lay there, weak, passing out, I reach out to him one last time, and feel for a pulse.

There is none. He’s gone.

I smile, relieved.

Thank you for reading this far.

This story is neither a generalization, nor is it based on any personal experience.

It is entirely fictional, drawing inspiration from similar cases of spousal tensions, and the extremes sometimes taken to escape such situations. It can be hard to be up front and confront others, and even harder to fix a relationship. All things come to an end, even good things. May we have the mindfulness to realize when the time has come and the strength how to face each end.