The Little Things

It was always the little things.

The rogue strand of red hair reaching high for the dim yellow light of morning. Freckles lifting as she sneered down at the breakfast I had prepared. The vile way her molars chomped on cereal. Milk splattering to the table. Drying. Sticky on my fingers as I cleaned up her mess. The image was so clear in my mind that when my alarm twanged its little tune, I jolted as though I could already hear the smack-smack-smush of breakfast.

But Steph was still asleep in bed. Cuddled up with an old hoodie of mine that was eternally stuck in the “would you wash this, would you wear this” cycle.

Evidently, I smelled better than the ten buck scent boosters.

Sleeping like this, nuzzled against the hoodie I bought in Florida, she looked so soft. In the dim orange glow of the rock salt lamp, she looked fragile. It was impossible to imagine that mouth spewing food and agitation when it so delicately hung open, puffing small breaths across the curls of red hair drooping across her lips.

One freckled hand reached out. It patted the hood before twining itself in the fabric and gripping hard. She loved me so much. Like this, it was impossible to ignore. Steph really did love me.

The disappointment was thick in my throat when I swallowed. I wouldn't get to see that sweet Steph for another few hours.

Steph was a different person in the morning. All animal, no elegance. Eating with the grace of a pig from its trough. Snorts included. Her kindness was replaced with agitated vitriol. Compassion gave way to rolling eyes and crossed arms. She walked the line between mean and cruel every morning as though it was an exercise. A daily practice.

She was just...different.

My alarm rang its pitiful little tune over an hour before hers just so I could avoid the beast while I staggered into consciousness. The few times I woke up with Steph we had broken into fights large enough to involve the police. We both had loud voices and knew how to use them. It wasn't serious to us, only name-calling and nasty comments. The neighbors had a different view on "serious".

So, I learned. If I could not keep my mouth shut, the world devolved into Steph-oriented disorder.

What is love without a touch of sacrifice anyway? Worthless.

Those little things still bugged me.

They haunted me.

In the night I woke covered in a film of sweat, chest heaving with the memory of our mornings. I didn't want to face her again like that. I didn't want to spend my morning biting my tongue and fighting against my own burning coal center.

By lunch, the clouds had always drifted away. Nasty comments had shifted into love notes scratched on scrap paper and plastered with stickers. By night, aggression and clenched fists faded into soft, open-mouthed kisses and the press of a warm body against mine as we watched a show. She chewed with her mouth closed.

The horrible little things of the morning were seamlessly traded in for the pretty little things of day and night.

And I woke each morning, haunted by the divide.

Six a.m was the worst time of day. Undoubtedly.

It was the clash between waking up and fully awake. The autopilot of my morning routine, running, weightlifting, washing, gave way to the cold realization that she would be downstairs soon. I could almost hear the moment Steph first swiped her alarm into a silent snooze. It was the mark of the end of my relaxation and the start of a morning full of snide remarks and a day of hard work.

The grandfather clock chimed.

Six a.m. had arrived.

Today, it found me standing at the old iron sink, staring into the depth of hot, murky water as it filled. Dishes from the night prior clouded the waters and the steam smelled like garlic in a way that turned my stomach. I was behind. A lone noodle slipped off a plate, sinking slowly to the bottom of the pale sink.

The pipes creaked as the water to her shower started.

It was a no-snooze morning.

Begrudgingly, I slipped my hands into the dirty water and began to wash. If she wasn't going to sleep in a little, I had to get the dishes done quickly and remove the horrible smell.

Really, it was my fault. I had suggested getting to bed early and leaving the remains of our dinner for the morning. Steph reluctantly agreed, hesitant herself to leave such a mess for me in the morning. And so I was stuck rushing through dishes.

Steph announced her presence as I slipped the last plate into the cabinet.

“God, it smells awful in here. What are you trying to do? Drown a vampire?” Her workbag thunked to its spot by the front door. I’d already adjusted to the wet garlic stench but she had not. “You expect me to eat eggs or something in here? It’s disgusting. Don’t bother cooking ‘em. I’ll just have cereal.”

“I still want them.”

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t cook them for me. You knew what I meant.”

I bristled.

A piece of bait. You knew what I meant. The phrase dangled in front of me and though my back was turned to her, I could imagine the tight look of anger pinching her features as she waited for a response. A fight.

Of course, I knew what she meant and she knew what I meant. Just let me have what I like. My whole life isn’t Steph-oriented.

A flip-book of scenarios flashed before my eyes.

I could spin on my heel and scream myself hoarse. The neighbors would call before I was done with my rant and Steph would cry which was never something I wanted to hear. There was something horrendously sad about the way she hiccuped through her tears and clutched the edge of her shirt, rolling it into little balls in the palms of her hands. The sight of it made me want to vomit and I thanked whatever was out there I had only seen it a handful of times and only caused it once.

That idea fizzled and died. No yelling.

We could play pretend and snap like rabid dogs at each other. Little quips could turn into grave curses, none rising above a normal level of conversation. The neighbors wouldn’t hear at all and we’d be saved the trouble of speaking with the police.

What words then would crawl under her skin? A list began clicking through my mind.

I was halfway through cooking my eggs before realizing I never said anything at all.

“You sure you don’t want eggs?”

“No,” she said more quietly. “They’ll just…taste like eggs.”

It wasn’t the sink at all then. Just the same strangeness we shared with eggs. The common trait we found on our first date at that breakfast joint twelve years ago when we both had to hand back our omelets in favor of waffles with ice cream.

Shame coiled in my stomach. Half of our morning battles began because I expected them to and started them myself.

“Don’t frown, Donny.”

And the other half because Steph was being…Steph.

A chair at the table behind my back groaned as she flopped into it. I could hear the nervous tapping of her nails against the wooden table. It was that time of year again.

Deep-rooted trauma over finding both her parents slumped over dead at breakfast on different occasions had changed her. She used to be as sweet and soft before nine in the morning as she was after. Then, she found her father. Five months later, she discovered her mother and was never the same.

Now, we were coming up on over a decade since the incidents.

“You coming over here or are you just gonna keep scraping those eggs?”

Thought I’d just keep scraping them, Steph, what did you think? The image of her face crumpling into grief before I hugged her flashed briefly in my mind. I bit my tongue.

“Be right there. Cereal you said?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I poured the cereal, grabbed her milk, and brought everything to the table as usual. More of a butler than a husband before the sun really rose, I sat down only once she had everything needed, juice included.

“So,” she said around a mouthful of soggy corn puffs. “You gonna do anything useful today?”

Not more than usual.

“Thought about cleaning the gutters.”

“Tch. They aren’t even that dirty.”

The eggs in my throat were suddenly dry. Several months back as winter rolled into spring, she’d left no room for argument. The gutters were disgusting, causing us leaks, and ruining the resale value of the house. Now, they were fine.

“Just a thought, Steph.”

“Bad one. You’ll kill yourself on that ladder. Still your dad’s old one isn’t it?”

I flinched. Another thing I’d forgotten. “Yeah.”

“Disgusting. Have you even looked at that thing? I don’t know how it’s held itself together this long.”

“It’s…alright.”

She snapped up from her rapidly emptying bowl of cereal, giving me a funny look as though I just said the most outlandish thing.

“I’m not asking you to get rid of it, Donny. I’m telling you not to get on it. Frame it in the living room for all I care if you’re so attached to it. Just don’t get on the stupid thing."

Her eyes floated back down to her cereal but by the step angle of her eyebrows, I could tell she was restraining herself. Her pink lips twisted as she brushed back her mane of fiery hair.

Sighing, she started again.

“You need to buy a new one. This isn't a suggestion anymore. Honestly. I don’t wanna scrape you off the concrete.” She sniffed at her orange juice, swirling it in her glass like a fine wine. “Imagine how much money that would cost at a funeral.”

“Yeah ‘cause the money is the problem there.” I shovelled the last of the egg into my mouth. It was cold and spongey. A lump barely slid down my throat. “Not your dead husband.”

“Get a new ladder.”

I nodded. In the heavy iron sink, the spatula slipped from its plate and clattered.

“I mean it," she snarled. "Sentimentality is nothing but junk especially coming from you. It would be expensive to fix you up enough to be presentable if you fell off that old thing because you liked it. You remember that old screwdriver that I told you to get rid of but you didn’t? Yeah. You impaled your hand, Donny, and I had to come home and drive you to the emergency room to get the stupid thing out. Tetanus shot and everything.”

It was routine. Being insulted, picking up the plates, and starting the dishes under the scrutiny of Steph was as normal of a morning routine to me as grabbing coffee and a bagel was for some high-level executive.

“I just wanted to-”

“Oh shut up.”

She glanced down at her watch, exhaling harshly as she stood. The chair screeched as it slid back into the wall. It hit the windowsill, slicing off another piece of flaking peach paint. Bare wood stood proudly below but all I saw was tomorrow’s argument. The next problem.

“I’m already running late. I gotta go.”

It was coming. I could feel it like an unreachable itch in my bones.

“Don’t mess anything up while I’m gone. And for God's sake don't get on that ladder.”

So close I could almost taste it like sugar in the air.

“Keep the house clean, you know?”

Here it came.

She paused, looking down at her sneakers for a moment with a small shake of her head. Then she smiled. Bright green eyes flicked up to me twinkling in the light of late morning. Dimples pressed their thumbs into her cheeks as white teeth flashed at me.

“I love you, you know."

Steph always said it the same way. The same airy tone touched her voice and lifted her voice up. Eyebrows up, head nodding subtly, Steph was the picture of earnest. Sincere.

“I know,” I said.

I could feel the smirk tightening my lips, making it apparent how much I liked this part. The sharp twist from harsh to yielding. Conflict to something else.

"I just...I don't want anything to happen to you. I love you."

She rubbed at her palm the way she did every morning. I was quiet. Waiting for her to probe me.

“And?”

She had to hear it. Her hands fluttered to her hips as both pale brows lifted higher, wrinkling her forehead.

“And I love you too, Steph.”

The smile split even wider, encompassing all of her pretty face. All the angles sharpened by the shadow of morning anger softened. Honey light ran its delicate fingers across her jaw. Lightly caressing down her throat, it nearly tricked me into hearing her soft summertime laugh.

“I knew it,” she breathed.

I loved this. I hated our mornings, but I lived for this.

She tossed her arms haphazardly around my neck in a hug as she pressed up against me. I responded in kind, holding her close.

Whispering into the red curls, I said, "I know it too."

"Thank you," she muttered. "Honestly."

She kissed me lightly, ruffled my hair, and closed the bright red front door with a soft click.

I know it, Steph. I know you love me.

Because I did. I always knew that she loved me. Despite the hour or so of complaints and the obscene way she chomped on her cereal, I knew that she loved me.

How could I doubt it?

The world we had created was littered with the ways she loved me. It was plastered to every wall. Slipped under my pillow with little chocolates when she made the bed. Steph loved me.

There was no doubt.

Which was why when ten a.m. rolled around, I was pacing nervously in front of my phone.

It sat on my work desk next to a collection of half-finished paintings like some kind of sacrifice, changing numbers as time crept forward.

10:09

Steph called every morning at 9:34 on the dot informing me that she got to work safely, that someone had brought donuts, and that she loved the breakfast I made.

There had been a handful of times where she had been late but never once had Steph missed calling before ten.

10:13

The lack of ringing on my phone was disturbing. All progress on my art had been lost to the current of worry and the cresting waves of anticipation.

It was a game. She'll call before 10:10. No? 10:15, then.

I stopped pacing. Instead, I stood and watched the numbers flicker into the next. The grandfather clock ticked while my heart did double-time in my chest.

10:27

Nothing. Nothing!

I poured over the morning as I stared at the empty little numbers on my screen. It hadn't been particularly bad in terms of mornings went. Our routine was unhealthy but sound. Avoid one another, gripe and snap, kiss and fall back in love.

There was nothing I did wrong.

10:34

I quit standing and opted for a chair. My knees were hurting and I gave in to the idea that no work would be accomplished until the phone rang. There was nothing I could do but be a captive to time and the stranglehold the worry had on my focus.

10:42

The phone rang.

It was not my Stephanie.

10:56

The phone shattered against the wall with a breaking scream from my throat. Bit by bit, the world around me darkened. Paint splashed against the floor to the shredding sound of tearing canvases apart. I broke apart. Fractured.

I split myself in two from the screams, yelling until my tongue tasted iron and small bloody freckles dotted my cheeks. I vomited in the kitchen. Punched holes through the living room drywall. Wept in the garage next to the stupid ladder.

Steph had wanted me safe. She wanted me alive to be there to love for the rest of her life.

I grabbed the ladder and cleaned the gutters, exaggerating every movement. It wobbled beneath me. Teetered and threatened to throw me over.

But I never fell.

I woke the next morning to a cold bed.

Stayed, unmoving, until my phone sang its song. Six a.m.

Steph would have been getting up by now. She would have slid the alarm over to snooze, rolled over with my hoodie, and waited fifteen minutes to start her tirade. I would have listened to the pipes start their habitual protests and panicked.

Her pillow pressed into my stomach as I breathed deeply and began to weep.

We would not fight over cereal sounds. There would be no debate over the stench of garlic in the kitchen or eggs that were too egg-like. I would not have to bite my tongue over a pointless insult or jab.

She was gone.

And suddenly, I missed the little things.