Wednesday Stories: Butter
She cocked her head staring at the yellow lump she had just dropped into the pan. Her life has become a series of meanwhiles done in waiting for Wednesdays. The garlic quivered and the curry leaves crinkled in the hot butter. She lifted the pan and poured the sizzling concoction over the carefully plated chicken she had earlier roasted. Her cooking had worked up quite a fragrance in the penthouse she played house at once a week. She placed the dish in the oven and set the table before sliding up the stairs, into the bedroom. Her mind goes through this every week, why, oh why did she cross that line, led by her intense emotions, her curiousity, her intrigue with the unconventional to here? She slipped out of the t-shirt and shorts that have absorbed the smell of food, and into the hot shower flushing the oil off her hair. Was she even happy? Most of the time not. Not until the door unlocks that her heart races, pumping blood to her face that would flush. She stepped out of the shower and stared at the mirror listening out for the sound of keys.
Once in a while the phone rings instead, and she would vow never to do this again, never to turn up, but he would swing by a day or two later and with a sort of suaveness convince her to come back the next week. Many an unpleasant memory floated about her as she slips on her dress but she instantly feels her mouth turn up into a smile as the door clicks. Floating downstairs she received his coat, and removed his tie. She poured him a glas of whisky and sat down beside him, attentively listening as he rattles on about his day. She nods at the right places, smiles when a smile is needed, laughs when she should and asked questions when she felt appropriate. She commends him for the decisions he had made, affirming his authority as a good wife should. She gets up from the sofa and retrieved a hot towel she had prepared. Kneeling beside him she wiped his feet, massaging it a little before he stood up to take his place at the dining table. As they chatted she felt a sort of sadness, first for him, and then for herself. Nobody listens to him no more, and her, they call all sorts of names. They did not have any idea how essential she was to him. She poured him his wine, and served him his food, attentive to every need, when he was with her he was never in want. Never. They ate together, and after dinner they sat reading in the room. She ran his bath, and he stepped in. At his gesture she slipped in beside him and when he looked into her eyes, as he would each week and took her with a man’s strength, the unpleasant memories flew out the bathroom window whistling and he knew, once again, she was safe here in his penthouse with him.
As he left closing the door softly behind him she lies in her satin, eyes shut so as to remain asleep as long as she could so she could seal the night’s sweetness tightly in her memory, until next week when he came again. Tears gathered, once again at the corner of her eyes as she woke up once again a singular independent woman, free to live as she willed, a life he knew little about. He was too busy. She thought of him, ached deeply for him and as the week ticks on she is once again numbed falling into the pace of her meanwhiles, waiting for the time she would take the lifts up to that penthouse again. Back at her apartment she strips off the fancies of being the good wife, slips on her usual and got on her bike where she rode, as fast as she could, against the wind, against the traffic into the front of his white mercedes. A crumpled bike, and a slender body hit the grey asphalt. He stepped out and stared at her cocking his head watching the beautiful lump at his feet melt into a pool of blood before him. He had tears, but only for a while, and in private, tears enough to commemorate the five good years she had served him.
And then life went on. But there was a sort of consolation for her as she peered down from the sky in the fact that he never again had another quite like her. Oh his sweet fair mistress, she was such a good thing.