The Courting

One

Angelo opened one last pack of sugar and tipped it over his coffee. He never put this much sugar, but in the last week he hadn’t been sleeping very well and needed the energy. Neither had Kimberly, his wife. They were too busy being up, fighting all the time. And when they finally would slip into bed together, it was like two warring soldiers sharing the same rifle. Eventually—last night—Angelo took the hint and made his bed on the couch downstairs. It was colder down there—the heater had to work for a much larger space in the first floor—but he could sleep better with cold skin than beside a cold heart.

He watched the coffee’s surface puff up as he stirred the sugar that settled. It made a foamy sound that he couldn’t quite hear, but that he imagined vividly as the miniscule bubbles formed and popped rapidly. Tossing the spoon into the sink, he lifted the mug and walked over to the window.

Jesus, he thought. Talk about being dramatic. Kimberly, since 6AM that morning, had been sitting on an empty parking space bumper outside their house. It was almost 8AM now. She was never up before 9AM.

Let her do what she wants, he thought bitterly. Let her starve out there. It’s her bidding. See if I give a damn. He felt almost instantly guilty for thinking that way, but in the four years of their marriage, he had never seen her get this upset over nothing. He couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about.

He sipped at the coffee, and winced as the blinding fire burned his tongue.

"Dammit," he muttered, licking his teeth to cool his tongue.

Alright, he thought, superstitiously thinking that the burn was a sign from some deity above. Alright, I’ll offer her some breakfast. That route always worked. They’d argue, and he’d clean up the mess by doing a good deed for her. Something to surprise her; catch her off guard. Last fight, which was probably a few months ago, he'd cleaned the entire house before she was out of bed. He was too tired to do that now, so he figured a nice and simple breakfast would do the trick.

Inspired, he moved to the fridge and brought out the eggs, bacon, and toast. First, he heated up the pan and started to fry the eggs. Kim likes hers…sunny-side up, he thought with satisfaction. Then he put the two bacon strips in the microwave. Toast in the toaster was last.

About five minutes later, breakfast was ready on a shiny white porcelain plate. Record time! The platter glowed, it seemed, and the soft, inviting smell permeated through the air. Holding the plate, he rolled the knob of the front door and stepped outside.

Kimberly was still on the parking bumper, as he expected. She was looking up at the sky. There were a few clouds, but they were scattered about like melting marshmallows in a cup of hot chocolate.

"Kim?" Angelo called.

She didn’t react, only continued to gaze upward.

"Kim, please," he said, beginning to feel ridiculous for making breakfast without asking her first. He looked down at his plate; it was getting cold in the November air, he could feel it.

"Baby," he tried again. "I made you breakfast. Will you please come inside?"

There, he thought. That should do the trick. He sounded completely vulnerable; she had to hear it in his voice.

Still, she didn’t respond. She didn’t even twitch a muscle. Aside from her blonde hair waving in the wind, she was completely still.

This is ridiculous, he thought. She’s taken this whole thing too far, too damn far!

He slammed the front door and dropped the plate of food into the sink. It crashed and scattered madly. Turning, he glanced outside again, to see if Kimberly had noticed his reaction. If she had, she hid the fact well. Damn it, he thought again. He wasn’t going to let it bother him.

Angelo began heading past the kitchen for the stairs, then stopped. He glanced above the refrigerator and saw the half-empty bottle of gin. It’s too early for that, his mind offered. His fingers involuntarily twitched when he saw the rack of empty glasses.

Just one glass, he thought. I can’t take her shit anymore. At least not sober.

He walked over to the gin, pulled it from atop the fridge, and poured himself a glass. He’d forgotten to put ice.

"Screw it," he mumbled.

He took the glass with him upstairs and shut the bedroom door. Sipped at the tangy, burning gin until it was gone.

Then he fell asleep.

***

He awoke with a start. Confused, he gazed around with blurry vision, wondering if this was the first time he’d woken up today. Then he saw the empty glass. He leaned over to look at the digital clock hanging across the room—9AM.

Work in an hour.

He heard thunder outside; it made the window tremble slightly. It was raining. Not hard, but no drizzle, either. Kimberly worked at 10AM also, at a daycare just two miles from their home. Angelo worked at Jim Bell's Auto Repair, a small repair shop just off the Palmetto Expressway. Kimberly should be gone by now.

Angelo felt a cavernous pain in his stomach and thought about food. He should have eaten that breakfast himself instead of foolishly tossing it in the sink. But he wanted Kimberly to see the mess later, so that she would know how angry he’d been.

He got up. There wasn’t time to shower, so he went over to the closet and picked out his clothes. Black pants, white pin-stripe shirt, black tie. And the same dress shoes he always wore.

He got dressed and walked into the bathroom that connected to their bedroom. He turned on the light, brushed his teeth, and styled his longish black hair. He hated the smell the hair gel left on his fingers, but he didn’t have time to wash it off thoroughly. Instead, he wiped the residue on the surface of his pants.

Once downstairs, he grabbed a banana from the kitchen and peeled it. He ate it quickly. He would eat something from the vending machine at work. He almost walked outside before remembering the rain.

Umbrella, umbrella, he thought, peering around the room. He found an umbrella wedged between the fridge and the oven, and snagged it. It must’ve not been raining when Kimberly left the house.

She hadn’t bothered to touch the mess he left in the sink, either. Grunting, he opened the front door. He heard the symphonic clapping of rain on cement and knew he couldn’t make it to the car without using the umbrella. He opened it, then lifted it over his head.

Then he saw Kimberly. Still sitting on the parking bumper, staring up at the sky with arms outstretched.

It was the beginning.