I hum cheerfully to myself as I lit the candle in the center of the table and rearrange the steaming dishes one more time. If I just move the bowl of peas a little more to the right, I was sure I could hide the place where the table had worn thin.
We don’t have much money, it’s true, and that has led to us having more and more fights, but it wasn’t every day that a couple could celebrate their third anniversary. I want it to be special.
Finally satisfied that the setup was perfect, I sit down eagerly and smoothed my dress (a little number with a plunging neckline that I would never dare to wear in public, but seemed perfect for a romantic night in). I admired all my hard work; I had worked overtime the past few weeks in order to get enough extra cash to make his favorite meal: spaghetti and meatballs with a side of cheesy garlic bread and buttered peas. I had also splurged and bought some fresh fruit and baked it into a pie, a special treat.
Although we have had rough times lately, I know he will show up and we will have a lovely meal the way we used to, so caught up in each other and so dizzy with wine that the world stops existing beyond us.
I sigh longingly and move the silverware a hair to the left. My watch reads 6:30. He should be home any second now.
He had been staying later and later at work lately, but he told me he was working hard to bring home more money for the two of us. Sometimes I caught a whiff of perfume on his jacket, but that’s just ‘cause he works in the sporting good’s store in the mall and walks by the perfume shop on his way out. Those girls there are always spritzing people who walk by with their latest sweet-smelling concoctions. It was really nothing to worry about.
Still, as the minutes crawled by, I decide to call him to make sure he was all right. There was often heavy traffic on his drive home, but even so, he was usually home by now. I dug through my purse until I found my cell phone. I dialed his number, but it went straight to voice mail.
“Hey Babe, it’s me,” I say into the phone. “I’m just checking to make sure you’re okay. Call me if you get this before you get home!” I press the “end call” button nervously. It’s already 7:15, and there’s no sign of him. The dinner had long since stopped steaming, but I wasn’t worried about that. I can just pop it into the oven for a few minutes, and it’ll be pipin’ hot again.
I was starting to panic by now. He was coming home, he was! He loves me, so he’s coming home. Maybe he just forgot today was our anniversary. That would be so like him. Men!
His friends may have taken him out after work for a drink. That’s it. He forgot tonight’s our anniversary and went out with the boys instead. If that’s where he is, I should probably send a cab after him. I root through my purse again and pull out my pink-scaled wallet. There’s only one dollar and a few pennies in it, not enough for a cab. Well, I’ll just have to trust him to remain sober enough to drive home.
Because he is coming home.
I lick my lips nervously and realize they’re dry. I dump the contents of my purse on the table and grab the chap-stick. If I’m going to be waiting, I may as well wait in comfort. I grab the tiny deck of cards I keep in my bag for emergencies and deal out a hand of solitaire.
It feels like an eternity before I look at my watch again, but only a few minutes have passed. Man, I could use a cigarette. Not because I’m worried or stressed or anything, but because it’s been a couple months since I’d had one. Unfortunately, I’d thrown them all away when I decided to quit all that time ago, so instead I pop a handful of tic-tacs into my mouth. I toss the empty container back into my purse.
Around 9:00 I notice that my nails are looking a bit rough. I open the outside pocket of my purse and grab the file. I work away at my nails until each one has a perfect, smooth half-moon of white showing. I blow the dust off the file and lay it across my lap. By this time, it’s nearly ten.
It’s around this time I break out the wine. If it was any other month I would just watch TV until he got home, but we hadn’t paid the cable bill and it had been shut off. So, I sprawl on the couch, not even bothering to sit like a lady in my sexy dress, with a bottle in one hand and the mace I had grabbed from my bag in the other.
He had better come home soon, because I’m getting drunk and I’m more than a little curious how much it would actually hurt to be sprayed in the face with the mace.
Instead, I get out my cell phone and call all the emergency rooms in the area.
I mean, that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be home already, right? Because he’s hurt?
Around 3:00 in the morning I’m sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, and I know he’s not coming back.
It’s hard to believe that just a few hours ago, I was humming. I don’t feel much like humming anymore. So, I reach in my purse, grab my tissues, and cry instead.
....
Her worst fear isn't really tangible, but I think it still counts. I'm not so sure how much my purse helped her, though. Let's just say that she survived on sheer willpower and tic-tacs.
Please forgive mistakes. Once again, I couldn't be bothered to proof-read (what kind of writer am I? XD).
