Hidden in Pink

Lizzy

I woke up. It was an ugly awakening. It wasn't beautiful like in the movies. It was forced, as if I were being maneuvered around like a robot. Maybe I am a robot. Maybe the person behind the controller is my wife. Wait, I take that back. It's her. It will always be her. Don't get me wrong, I love my wife. I love everything about my wife. I love that she loves me, I love that she's a great mom to great kids. I love that I know, no matter what I've done she's disappointed in me. I love that she criticizes my every move, and I love that she's a good cook. I love my wife. I really do.

I swung my legs over the bed, running my fingers through my hair, trying to debate whether or not it needs to be washed or just settle for gel. Gel will have to do.

The space next to my bed was empty, my wife probably brewing up a storm of pancakes, eggs, and bacon down in the kitchen. I think it's her cooking that has me holding onto her. That one strand of strawberry blonde hair that's tangled around my throat. She'd kill me if I ever left. Kill me.

Once I hit the bathroom I'll be able to smell the cakes. I could hear a symphony of pots and pans playing in harmony downstairs, as well as the gurgle of our baby boy, Harley (my choice), and the whining of our little tot Phoenix (her choice). I walked over, pausing at the bathroom door, heaving in a deep breath. An aroma of syrup, salted eggs, butter, bacon, and something else filled me up. I stood in corrected. Today is French Toast Friday, how could I have possibly forgotten?

I finished washing my face and before I dried off, I found myself staring in the mirror. I could see the wrinkles on my face, growing by the second, the deeply embedded lines of worry in my forehead, and the scar. It reminded me of the night sky, like a strip of moon slashed upon my cheek - remnants of a crazy night. I splashed water on my face, and imagined them melting away and sliding off my skin as the tear drops of water slid against them, ridding my face of evidence of my every day torture. But one must begin with the start, and the wrinkles that my wife sewed on my face must remain.

Now dressed in my suit, I did my best to slip past her through the front door. Leaving now would make me two hours early for work. It's not that I didn't want to see my kids, I just knew that she could handle them on her own. Yeah, that's it. However, I knew I would be unsuccessful. I don't care how cliché it sounds, my wife has the ears of a hawk. I pushed through the door, the sound similar of a package being ripped open. I could already hear the click of my wife's heels across the marble floor. I shut the door, but remained put at the entrance, not wanting to look as if I were trying to save myself.

She looked me up and down, as I did her. She was wearing a turtle neck dress with an apron fastened around her waist, her hair tied up into a perfect bun. A pan filled with sizzling bacon in one hand and her hip in the other. Sighing, she said, "Come eat with your family, Ben," before clicking her way back into the kitchen, trusting that I'd follow after her. I hated her because I did. I hated her because I knew she was right. And despite all the horrible, agonizing, devil-like aspects of my wife, she was a sexy thing.

Coming into the kitchen I was greeted with the squeals of my children. "Daddy!" Phoenix yelled as she hopped out of her booster seat to meet with a tight hug around my ankles. I'm a tall guy. I swooped her up in my arms, cradling her as if she was still a baby. Those days just slip right through our fingers, you know? It's like it was just yesterday that we brought her home from the hospital. I miss the small days, but in retrospect, she is still small.

"Hi, Pumpkin," I cooed adoringly. Oh, how I did adore her. She's perfectly perfect. Her strawberry colored hair was in a French braid today, and it was hard not to admire my wife's work. I could feel her watching us, savoring these fantastic moments I got to share with my daughter. It was the only time I knew my wife really loved me. And when I see my daughters red-blonde hair and look into the blue eyes that my wife had blessed her with, I love her more. Because she is a little pocket sized version of Lizzy, and every time I see them together my heart beats a little quicker. It tells me that regardless of how terribly wrong this feels, I did something right.

Little Harley was gurgling at the head of the table, hitting his spoon against the tray connected to his booster seat, smiling in between bites of cheerios. I blew him a kiss and he laughed out loud, and I knew the pouting from Nixie was coming. "Why didn't you blow me a kiss, Daddy? I want a kiss too!" I laughed and set her back down in her booster seat.

"Here," I said as I pecked her forehead. She laughed too and resumed eating her French toast. I sat down at the side of Harley as I watched Lizzy bring me my plate of French toast, eggs, bacon, and a single sausage. A breakfast made in heaven served by the devil. I knew I would only have to take a few bites and then she would let me go. I hated this feeling, like I'm trapped in my own house - held hostage by a raging sociopath. Maybe I'll make it out alive.