Meatloaf:
A Love Story
It was a Tuesday, that's for certain. Meatloaf. Meatloaf carrots and Shirrif's™ potatoes au gratin, because Bill loved French food, Bird's™ custard with lemon zest and fresh ground Folgers's™ for dessert.
5:07 Bill's car pulled into the driveway as I laid the table. Two knives, two forks, two plates and one jar of Branston's™ pickle relish, because Bill hated monotony.
He kissed the air next to my cheek as he sat down and I placed the food in front of him.
The meatloaf was dry, there was absolutely no reason for that and I looked Bill to see if he noticed. He didn't. He looked up at me, smiled and winked. Winked.
I felt a surge of anger so great my hand trembled.
Twenty-one years of marriage, one thousand and ninety-two Tuesdays. If you subtract two weeks in Sherkston Shores every two years and accounting for three Christmas' that fell on meatloaf day, that's one thousand seven hundred and five meatloaf dinners. One thousand seven hundred and five meatloaf dinners and five winks.
Five winks over a ten year period.
I looked across the table and looked at Bill's hands. They were spotlessly clean. Surgeon clean. I looked at the part in his hair razor sharp and clean, very clean. No friendly flakes of psoriasis popping up to wave, just clean. His ears usually hiding behind thick brush were apparent and rosy.
Finally I noticed the cologne.
Bill continued eating contentedly as I planned his funeral. I would wear black of course, but no hat; hats are for movie stars and prostitutes. Reverend Postad would have to do as Rev. MacIsaac was on holiday and the chapel was still under renovation--but I'm always flexible.
I imagined for the last time what this one looked like. Blonde, probably, frowzy naturally. She would wear a hat of course and sob noisily at the back of the church. She might bring a friend to share in her drama of the unwed widow, but no, too much attention for too little work.
I would have a private service. Thirty seven people. seventeen from my side and twenty from his--after all, it was his funeral.
I rose from the table and removed the custard from the refrigerator. I made the coffee and placed 12 Planter's Peanuts in the grinder. There were more dramatic ways of doing this, but why make a show of it?
Thousands of people die form anaphylactic shock each year. Why shouldn't he? He didn't deserve an extraordinary death.
In the 43 minutes it took Bill to die, I cleared the table
and
washed the dishes. A funny thought occurred to me as I put
away the pickle relish and Bill writhed around
the floor gasping for
breath.
I would never have to make meatloaf again.
I hate meatloaf.
© S.Grehan
