DINNER FOR TWO
DINNER FOR TWO
It was a pleasing
ritual for Vivienne to cook a meal for her love Marco;
especially during one of their most romantic nights of the year.
Another monthly anniversary.
Vivienne would light a candle, put the player on and
play some soft Sade. She would stare into each of
Marco’s beautiful eyes. Remind herself of how
Tonight was steak
night. With a side of home cut chips and a homemade garlic sauce that was
ground and creamed all from scratch.
A meal fit for a
king, a meal perfect for a devoted-husband. Marco was her king.
Marco was a solitary
figure.
Sure; when he was
younger he was like any other young man. Marco was once impulsive. He was once
ambitious. He was once rambunctious, fast living, with a devil may give a shit
kind of attitude. But now – he was a quiet, gentle and wise man of solitary inclination.
I knocked the spirit right out of him. Vivienne would tell her father.
It pleased Vivienne
greatly to know that as Marco aged and responsibilities caught up with him, he
had become more docile – content to spend time alone and less restless – this
relationship would have died long ago had Marco always been elsewhere, like the
early years.
Elsewhere is a bar in London. A business meeting in
Europe and another woman’s arms for all Vivienne knew.
No-no-no.
She had Marco as a
homebody. And Marco was still only twenty-six.
Had he been the
go-getting man he once was, then “this” just wouldn’t have worked.
And it was great to
have a relationship where the woman really worked her bum off.
Babies were off the
table indefinitely; so Vivienne had her career.
That was her baby.
And Marco was her king…
The dinner ritual
was important for them. A chance to communicate and lay down a foundation of
trust and dialogue akin to any marriage.
It also was a
chance for Marco to be regular and not the hermetic creep he’d become.
”Human" company -
like his wife…
Marco entered the
kitchen like a skittish fox enters a carpark at midnight. Eyes ablaze and
looking anywhere but here, in a state of eager fright. But then the sight of a
familiar face, cooking a beautiful meal soon calmed him. The smells hitting
right at the back of the hippocampus and creating soothing memories of early
courtship.
He sat down and
placed a napkin on his lap.
“So how was your
day?” Vivienne asked; the way a good
Ask about his day – like a
normal, good wife. That’s good Vivienne. You’re
“It was good thank
you, dear,” Marco replied in a drilled
“What did you do?”
Vivienne said.
“I was in the room,”
Marco replied.
“Just the room?”
Vivienne probed further.
“Just the room.”
Marco said and smiled a broad superficial smile.
Marco felt
despondent. His earlier bliss at dinner quickly gone and evaporated.
She was in one of
those kinds of moods. Fuck! She was always in one of those kinds of moods.
It was now coming up
to five years and Marco was sure that during the entirety of the five years
there wasn’t one day where they did have a cross word for one another. Vivienne
having the majority of the crossed words – every single day.
Marco ate in a rush,
terrified to remain there too long – but Vivienne knew that if Marco finished
quickly he would still have to wait for her and the time spent at dinner would
have been the same regardless (Vivienne being a slow eater of course). Marco
was eating in a pointless rush. Nonetheless, Marco still ate mouthfuls in a
pointless sprint, despite the wasted time and energy it cost him.
Now that Marco had
assessed the mood of Vivienne, it became like every second at that dinner table
spent was a step closer to the impending doom that he always dreaded with this
bipolar woman.
And Vivienne sensed
Marco feeling that and slipped deeper and deeper into her own fragile state of
unsteady love, unreciprocated love, forced love. This made Vivienne feel a cold
and painful imbalance that one only feels in the depths of their heart and
their stomach.
As dessert was
brought out, Vivienne resumed her questioning, in a cold, stern tone which she upped a level
because Marco’s speedy eating pissed her off.
“I hear you, Marco.
I hear you with that pen I gave you, trying to scrape away at the walls and force the window open. And I heard
you today, plotting your little escapes.
Don’t tell me that today you were just in the room – don’t lie to me, Marco.” Vivienne said.
DON’T LIE TO ME
Marco nodded like
the guilty little boy he was or the pathetic “man” he’d become.
Vivienne swiped at
the table and knocked over the jug of wine in a fury. The wine spread quickly and swallowed the table
cloth. The wine was dripping melodically onto the floor:
Drip, drip, drip.
“You lost the left
hand Marco; do not make me take the right,” Vivienne said.
Vivienne reached
across and pulled back Marco’s sleeve to reveal a stump where the left-hand
once was. The stump had a
rough terrain. It was pockmarked and bumpy. The amputation was carried out with
a butter knife and the aftermath was disgustingly craggy. The arm was hideous.
“I love you too much
to do that again,” Vivienne said, “don’t make me.”
She began deep
breathing and calming herself.
Marco could see the
scar on Vivienne’s face illuminate in
After dinner, Marco
trotted back to his room. Vivienne followed with the keys and slammed the
basement door in his face.
The locks made a
clunking sound, a repressive but familiar sound for Marco.
And with that –
Marco was back in the basement. The large door bolted. Marco was staring into
the dim lamplight, the shackles bound to the radiator. They made another familiar
clunk as he pulled the shackles forward and they rattled like metal on metal.
Marco was now the
kind of man that was always alone with his thoughts.
You picked the wrong
woman.
One day – on one of
these monthly “romantic” dinners, he
Marco only had one
problem with that specific plan, he had grown to
Marco picked up the
spoon and went back to carving into the walls, quietly this time.
The carving had a feint
chalky outline that needed going over again – it read:
MARCO
4 VIVIENNE
