Chocolate-Flavored Thud

My mother was the picture-perfect housewife. She always had treats baked and tea ready the second you came into the door and, her smile could light up a whole room. There's no surprise that for every birthday, the birthday person in question would always get the first slice of cake - it's the right thing. It's a tradition most families carry all through growing up; looking back on past celebrations it seemed to be a small overlooked detail in the bigger birthday picture.

I don't know why that memory hit me suddenly, I look down at the cake batter I am mixing; I smile, ah, that's why. It seems that whenever I am in the kitchen, memories of our time together flood my mind; it's as if she were bustling around beside me, chopping and mincing up a storm and shouting large directions even though she was small in stature. I am thrown back into my reality of past birthdays. My family hasn't actively kept in touch since her wake; I miss her.

I follow her recipe to the letter, except for throwing in extra chocolate pieces just like she used to and didn't tell anyone. My mouth salivates at the thought of the first bite, but I stop myself before I get too carried away. I have always been the type to keep to myself; I don't fancy much of social life. I find comfort in books and cooking. I had been alone for so long that when someone had come around, I didn't know how to act. The best thing I could do is show affection the way Mother did, through food. Every time you came around, I always made sure to have a plate of delicious snacks or a warm meal to enjoy.

There came to be a small problem, the relationship fell into a rut with me always cooking on one side and; you losing interest on the other. I wish I would have been paying more attention to what was going on outside the kitchen; I had blinders attached to my head trying to please you. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, after all. I wanted to be the apple of your eye, and something in my head told me that if I kept cooking for you, that would happen. I should've been more aware when we were out; your gaze would linger on the waitress, or you'd do a double-take of the blonde who passed us on the sidewalk.

I excused your actions when I caught you with my bridesmaid on our wedding night, gave you the benefit of the doubt because the champagne had been flowing so freely. I continued to excuse your actions because that is what a perfect 1950's housewife does. She supports her husband and creates a loving environment for him to come home to at the end of the day. I am startled out of that bitter thought to the sound of the timer ringing. I complete a toothpick test to make sure it is ready and pull it out of the hot oven.

While the cake is cooling on the counter, I combine the ingredients for a rich chocolate buttercream frosting. Out of habit, I scoop some out to taste test, and just as it is about to hit my bottom lip, I halt and quickly wash it off of my finger instead. No, this cake isn't for me. It wouldn't be ladylike of me to try any of it without letting you try it first. Once the cake has completely cooled, I frost it to perfection and put it in the fridge to chill. I complete making dinner and set the table to await your arrival from work. As you come in the front door, I finish your martini and greet you.

Once you are settled and ready to eat, we sit down to your favorite meal while you chatter about your day; I listen half-heartedly, replying to you with the responses you need. Once you finish eating and clear the table, I bring out the cake and set it between us. I watch your eyes light up, and I lean down to kiss your cheek. I cut the first piece very thick and placed the plate in front of you while singing a cheerful birthday melody. You graciously wait for me to dish out my slice and sit back down in my chair. Once you see that I am content, you grab your fork, and I hold a weighted breath; the anxiety creeping up into my throat forming a lump in the shape of the word stop, but I push it back down as you bring the fork up to your mouth.

It seems like an eternity waiting for you to finish your bite, looking at you with a small smile as you start to realize what is happening. Calmly I tell you that I am not happy in our relationship and want a divorce, that I know about your secretary, just as I finish the word you fall face-first into the leftover cake with a chocolate-covered thud. Chunks of cake flew all over the carpet and wall. I sighed at the result of using too much Arsenic. I sigh at my new chore but figured this might work in my favor, my mother may have raised the perfect housewife but, she didn't raise a fool.