Anniversary

Frosted steam coughed out at him as he opened the freezer. It was nestled in the back, wedged behind the salisbury steak tv dinners and frozen brussel sprouts he'd get around to eating some day. The cheap plastic container -the ones she used to keep from the grocery store bakery- was half crushed by a bag of raw chicken breasts, crooked and frozen. He pried it loose from it's frigid tomb and stood there a moment, haunted eyes taking it in once more. They were supposed to eat it together, on their first anniversary, a commemoration of a successful year of marriage and the many more to come. They were supposed to do a lot of things together.

The plastic cracked and snapped away as he opened it and set the preserved delicacy on a plate to thaw. It's umber sides glistened with moisture as though the reception was that morning. A smile halfway crept up his face as he remembered halfway fighting with her over her choice. Wedding cakes were always white, what kind of heathen wants a chocolate cake?

"Chocolate's the only real kind of cake," she had laughed, "All others are just pastries."

Of course, the icing had to be milk chocolate; just to further spite tradition. He tried to steer her away like always, timidly at first. He didn't even like chocolate. She insisted, timidly never, and wore him down. The food wasn't what had mattered anyway. Now, gazing at the slight film of crystallization along the icing, he couldn't agree more with her. A frozen picture perfect thing, a confectionary monument to her spirit. Not that she would ever see it.

He found the silverware -the ones that were actually silver- hidden in the hallway closet where he had to put them, along with the rest of his heirlooms. Neither she nor the creditors ever found them. One of the spoons was missing. Her voice in his head joked that it was a good thing he didn't need it. The tone was more bitter than he remembered her sounding.

The slice of "real" cake wasn't quite ready as he set the table. The ice crystals had melted from view, but the chocolate icing still stood on edge. He set down a glass gently and looked for the champagne. He had bought just for the occasion. Never a drop in the house anymore, yet he still couldn't keep track of anything. It was sitting on the counter just opposite the cake. He had looked right at it twice at least. His search had sapped his meagre humor. He snatched the bottle as if it were guarded by snakes, knocking over the pile of condolences and legal notices. Just holding the bottle made his hands tremble. The fragile foil wrapped around the cork wire looked like her hands did when he last saw her. It slammed down onto the table hard, chattering the fork from the napkin. He still didn't know his own strength.

He fumbled through his music numbly. He knew he still didn't have anything she would've liked, but it was important to find something appropriate to the event. He decided on an old mixtape of classical she might've made for him, back when there was no need to forget. He tried to remember which track was Vivaldi as he loaded the disc into the stereo. Vivaldi was playing when he proposed.

He had the track before Vivaldi playing as he lit the candles. They had bought them in preparation for their first Valentine's in the house. Now, romance was the last thing the deep red crimson of the tear-shaped candles brought to his mind. They were the only candles he had left, though, and it was too late in the day to go out for new ones. He'd just have to try and bear it, like he should have before.

He sat at the dining table with the chocolate cake in front of him. A second empty chair sat opposite them both. A spare silver fork and champagne glass lay on the table before it. He had wanted to move the chair from the table, but it was important to have it there as an effigy. The doctor said it would bring catharsis. His hands trembled as he popped the champagne. The corked burst out like a gunshot and the scar on his left arm ached suddenly. His hand steadied worryingly as he filled his glass. As Vivaldi began to play, he eased into his own seat and toasted the chair.

"Happy Anniversary, Dear."

The fork cut into the cake after some effort. It was light and flavorful on the outside, but the center was still hard and cold. He slowly chewed and swallowed everything all the same. When he and the song finished, he washed it down with the champagne. Outside, cars, full of the living, could be heard passing by as he sat staring at the icing skid marks on the plate. The doctor had said he would feel relieved, but he didn't. He didn't know what he felt.

"Finished," he guessed with a grimace.

He didn't even like chocolate.