A white picket fence surrounded by cucumber colored grass, and a scattering of lemon-yellow daffodils to encircle a big oak tree. In the spring, we would have tulips—the colors of tangerine and Washington apple. Inside the house, there would be a loving husband and a child or two. A simple, yet perfect life.
How cliché?
A glass plate slips off the pile of dishes in the sink, and a splash of soap bubbles splatters all over my violet silk blouse. I try to keep my focus out the window, but the view becomes foggy as hot water pings off the back end of a frying pan, causing a metallic harmony of zings.
I adjust the dishes to stop the water catastrophe and continue loading the dishwasher. "Is everything okay in there, babe?"
My gaze floats toward the ceiling, and I take in a breath before responding. "Just wonderful.” I should have said something different because now he will peel himself from the couch, away from the game he’s been waiting to watch all day, and will come in here to perform his assignment of playing the part as my boyfriend.
Thirty seconds pass before Ace’s hands squeeze around my shoulders. "Did you have a bad—Oh yeah, baby! Go, go, go!" His hands are gone, and his neck is craned around the wall to catch the game-play on the TV.
I secure the dishwasher and take a sponge to the casserole pan. I saved the worst for last. At least the fog has cleared from the window, allowing me to sneak a peek at Suzette and Tim as they stroll by the window, hand in hand. Every night after dinner, they walk down the sidewalk, following their adorable two-year-old, Mia, in her Little Tyke’s red car. The three of them are in a fit of laughter, probably from taking the joy out of watching a monarch butterfly weave between the three of them. I thought life was supposed to get more challenging when you have children, but it doesn’t appear to be the case from inside the window. The life outside this window seems far more desirable.
"What were you saying, babe?" Ace asks, placing a kiss on my cheek.
"I wasn’t saying anything. You didn’t finish asking me whatever you were trying to say."
"Oh," he says. "Uh, did you pay the water bill today?" Ace steps beside me and drums his hands against the countertop, bouncing to whatever song is in his head.
"Of course," I respond. It’s not like I have anything else going on. Ace thinks since I work from home, I must take four naps a day in between the moments I stop to smell every single flower in our front yard.
"Did you get the mail?"
I shake my head. "No, I didn’t have a second."
"The mailbox is at the end of the driveway, babe," he says with laughter filled with the sound of annoyance.
"Yet, you pulled into the driveway and saw the red flag down, but couldn’t bother to grab the mail, right?"
Those words will lead to our nightly banter about who works harder and who works more. We didn’t always bicker and fight, but throughout this last year, I lost the strength to brush my feelings aside. "Melody, I worked all day," he says as if my comment was insulting his job.
"As did I, Ace."
There’s the snicker I was waiting for. "Okay," Ace continues.
My attention is pulled back out the window where Gianna and Paulo stroll by for their nightly couple’s jog. I didn’t even know people could smile while running, but they do. They are just that happy. The sight of them redirects my attention to my ring finger—my empty ring finger.
"What are we doing, Ace?"
I grip the granite rim of the sink, watching my knuckles whiten. "Fine, I’ll get the mail since you have been so damn busy painting your nails today, or whatever it is you want to call your job." A screenwriting editor, but who’s keeping track.
Ace stomps out of the kitchen, channeling the type of testosterone I might expect from the twelve-year-old boy I assume he once was. The clang of the screen door reverberates through the house, and I watch out the window as Ace makes his way to the mailbox. He retrieves the pile of envelopes and sorts through them. Once he’s gone through the pile, he purses his lips to release a long breath, probably hoping he can calm down before he returns inside.
He places one letter on top of the stack, keeping his gaze fixed on the one envelope, but I can’t understand what could be so fascinating about a sealed letter. His stomps become weak, ambling steps as he returns inside. I debate asking if everything is all right because if I do, it would mean I’m giving into this stupid argument. But if I don’t ask, I’m acting like a twelve-year-old child too.
"Babe, you got something weird in the mail."
"What is it? A bill?"
Ace walks back into the kitchen, still staring down at the envelope. He places the stack of mail down on the teak kitchen table, except for the one letter he reaches over to me. "It’s made out to you, but turn the envelope over."
I do as he suggests, finding the words: ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written with red pen alongside the seal.
It’s my dad’s writing, which makes my stomach gnarl. In a frenzy, I spin around until I spot my phone on the kitchen island. My hand is shaking when I search through my short list of Favorite Contacts for Dad’s number.
Ring.
Ring.
