
To be a woman is to perform. It’s been that way since the dawn of time, it seems, and for Marie, it was her entire life. She knew her role like the back of her hand. “I love you, darling,” “I’m not hurt, sweetheart,” “I forgive you.” But tonight was the closing show. The house was clean, the table was set, the baby asleep, and she stood at the door ready with a freshly poured whisky in her hand as Harrold pulled up the driveway. She braced herself as the doorknob hitched to the left. She pasted on a smile. To be a woman is to perform.
“Hi, darling, here’s a drink, your favourite. Oh, honey, I’ll take your bag and put it away; I’m sure you’re exhausted. How was work?”
She moved through the motions like clockwork, the brightness in her eyes outshining the dark circles slumped underneath them, dragging her gaze to the pink stain on the collar of his white shirt. She ignored the smell of a stranger’s perfume with the grace all good, trained wives possess.
Harrold was late from work yet again. He grumbled something under his breath and poured the entirety of the brown liquid down his throat with a grimace. Marie was quick to refill it as they both moved to the living room. She followed her duty by making Harrold as comfortable as possible.
The tie was removed first. As her husband slumped into the couch, she worked on detangling the cotton cord carefully and slowly off his neck, as if one wrong tug would tighten a noose around hers.
Next, the shoes. She untied them both and slid them off, cautious not to obstruct his view of the game buzzing next to her, blaring loud cries and whistles into her ear, reminding her of her position. On display. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Another reminder arrived in the form of a slap on the arse from her oh-so-loving husband.
“Massage my feet, Marie; I’ve had a long day.”
Marie did as ordered, the blisters on her heels overlooked as she turned to grab the lotion.
“And get me a beer while you’re at it; this whisky stinks.”
It didn’t. It was his breath that stank. But she kissed him anyway when he signalled for one, with as much delicate love and softness as their wedding day.
To be a woman is to perform.
He swigged the beer and commented on the score as Marie got to work, kneeling down in front of him. She moulded, pushed, and pressed all the good spots, a smile endlessly held on porcelain skin.
As the game continued, Harrold grew more and more agitated. The referee wasn’t making the correct calls, and it was ruining the play. The final wrong move on screen caused him to cry out an aggressive, “WHAT THE FUCK, REF,” nearly kneeing Marie in the face in the process.
Her role slipped, for a brief moment, but that was all it took.
“Honey, can you please keep it down? The baby’s asleep.”
Shit.
The spotlight shifted, placing her dead centre stage. All lights on Marie. On display. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Instantly, she was pulled from the floor to his face by the wrist, held hard and firm. There would be cool-toned colours stained on those wrists the next day.
The stench of bubbled yeast poured into her face as the words slurred out.
“You think you can tell me what to do? That I can’t do what I want in my own home? I’ll be as loud as I want to be, and your whore baby can deal with it.”
Venom spewed to her core as she held every nerve she could to not shake and cry in his grip.
Our baby, she thought, it’s our goddam baby.
“Yes, of course, my love. I’m sorry. We should go eat; dinner’s ready.”
A desperate attempt to change course.
A beat passed before he let go, and Marie shuffled quickly into the kitchen.
They sat across from each other. The capricious plastic table groaned as Harrold attacked the chicken pot pie. Marie did not touch her plate at all.
He didn’t notice.
The sound of a clock ticked in the distance, counting down.
“Did you like the chicken, my love?” A quizzical inflection held in her tone.
With the plate practically licked clean in front of him, Harrold shrugged.
“Stacy makes a better one. Maybe you should get the recipe from her.”
That fucking secretary.
“Maybe I will,” Marie calmly stated, bending down to pick something off the floor.
The spotlight shifted, and the clock kept ticking.
“Or maybe I won’t have a reason to make that stupid pie ever again.”
She placed the peanut oil gracefully on the table.
And with that came the show’s grand finale.
The ticking stopped.
Harrold’s face held confusion, then horror. His splotchy skin paled, and his foghorn throat closed for business. He thrashed and sprawled, clawing around for something, anything with the mercy to save him, causing quite the scene.
An allergy is such a convenient prop.
The curtains closed on Marie’s face as her bright demeanour dropped, her eyes now eager with darkened desire.
As the final strained breath snuck from the lips of her biggest critic, she stood over him, massaging a bruised wrist. She waited until he was truly gone before exhaling years of burden in one last release.
Now the real work began.
As the well-trained, dutiful wife Marie was, she knew how to clean anything. No spilled meal and broken table was a match for a devoted woman, and the house was pristine and perfect.
All signs of the husband were stricken from existence.
The clock continued ticking, and the world kept spinning as Marie prepared for her final act.
Her final lines of the show.
“Hello, officer, please, you must help. My husband, he’s missing. Oh god, please, officer, I am so worried!”
To be a woman is to perform.