Television-trope-esque homes skirt the road, row after row. Static screen and theme music wash over. Kids on bicycles roam the streets, turning each corner in unison. An eerie quietness hangs heavy.
The occasional bird, lazily half sketched, floats into frame, hung by a string. Sometimes they fall from the sky. It always happens at dusk; you see a little black speck fall past the fence line. An error cut with silence, panning to the next scene. Followed by commercial breaks to reattach the birds and roll away the clouds.
Back to my preoccupations: rubber-gloved and in a dutiful daze, I am drawn to the window. Outside glowing so bright, almost blurry, I squint at the clouds, identical and still. And well now my eyeballs are glued to the glass, tearing up from Windex residue…my fault. The sky is cold. I watch the clouds run away. Steamed glass, my hot cheeks pressed against it, are up for backyard viewing. Never mind that…we’re on the floor now. I’m making soapy snow angels.
After some consideration, I assume my hourly backyard watch. I’m the protector of hedge and bush. Keeper of the dishcloth. Defender of the neighbourhood. Now listen closely. In exactly 13 minutes, when it strikes 11, every sprinkler system will power on. In the five minutes between them turning on and back off again, my other self will take over the watch.
My ears prick up when the first sprinkler starts to spit and gurgle. It wakes up its fellow sprinklers and before you know it the whole neighbourhood is alight with mist. I’m bouncing with joy, in my head at least. My feet stay still and planted on the lino. Outside, rainbows form over the soaked grass. Purple or Indigo? Orange and yellow.
It’s a woman in red. Her figure lurches forward from the fence, a cat on the prowl. She’s after me, the first destination on her path of destruction. Eyes like shadows, gloves just like mine… Where are my gloves? Eyeball to eyeball. She’s here at the window. Two madwomen lock eyes in midday light… How cinematic. She’s shaking the glass now, poking it like a bubble and drawing the liquid back in her sudsy glove. Red kills the grass. It kills my hope. She lingers for a while. Examines my expression, furrows her brow. What is she thinking? Is she looking at me, or her own reflection? I can’t tell. It’s all the same here. Isn’t it? She’s got my husband, I know it. I hope she does.
Pop.
Five minutes is up.
The sink water is cold. The suds are up the wall, but it’s fine really. I have all day to clean it, polish it, and then put a big red bow on it of course. He wouldn’t mind now, would he? A big old mess instead of dinner on the table? His beady eyes would rip into me. A gaze without a face. A voice that shocks my brain into idiocy…it wouldn’t take much.
He will arrive as he always does: eyes glazed, face gaunt, loveless. Zombie-like men dressed to the nines braking in the driveway together... one great squeal. Red-outlined suits, illuminated in the dimming evening light, stumble to the door. Eager for a drink to hold. They approach noiselessly and offer no reaction to their dolled-up wives. Looking for someone to make all those manly worries disappear. Someone to care, to think for the minds of two. I’m that someone - decidedly.
He's always been a ghost in my house, distant and strictly business. I’m here all day. He’s always away. Manly duties he says. Perhaps he really is busy, but I wouldn’t know. What he does all day is not of my business or capacity to comprehend. I’ve never seen him without a suit on. His default appearance. Monotonous and ignorant. In fact, his face is quite greyish. A secretive man of few words. His beady eyes, too dark to see, stare back at me in the bubbles.
His cruel judgement, fluttering eyelids, an unceasing blink. I’m the ghost now. Frozen in motion, my hands wrinkled in the water. Rubber gloves around my neck. It’s the way he looks at me, it says “Get back to your job, maid.” I’ll ruin him! Let me have this. I’m stabbing with the scrubber. Red on white lino. Bubbles pop and he takes a last heave. Silence. Drown those eyes, they’re not welcome here! Watch them glaze over.
But I understand, really. It’s a man’s world. I’m just living in it. Blah blah blah. I must obey. Answer only when I’m asked. Never make eye contact for too long. Be effortlessly put together, never fall into hysteria when he’s near. Husband and wife: two words with no relation. We’re just two humans, occupying the same spaces. Eating food of my making, walking on floors that I polished.
I’m wading through the suds. A little ocean in the kitchen. I’m going for a swim today! Not too rough in the skysurf. Scrubber in hand, and the plate comes crashing to the floor.
Bird to the ground. Its string follows. The sky grows colder. A blood sunset turns everything waxen to the touch.
I’m all yellow and sickly. Are there suds on my face? The bird’s at my feet, string tied around its neck, strangled. If I squint my eyes hard enough it could be a small mouse. Death by poison – a fate I think we’ll all meet. I’m turning green. A bubble escapes out the window. Is the window a bubble? I’m sobbing into the glass. Hands clammy and pressed against it. Zoom out, the final shot in a soap opera. I’m still performing my theatrics, silently screaming hot tears. Stomp the bird out, till you can’t see it anymore. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear, please! Go away. Go away now little mouse… and don’t come back.
The sun’s closing. Like a clam in a sink. It’s sinking, but oh, stay! Don’t let him come home. Dinner is served. Mash and pot roast…my specialty. Two plates for the loved-up couple. A side of stewed bird? Next, it’s mash with cutlets. Would you like red wine with that? Sure, darling, here you are. Do you need a refill, darling? Let me get the salt for you. No pepper? Are you sure? It goes cold. Maybe mashed peas? He never liked his greens – far too healthy for a gentleman. The man eats carrots purely because they’re orange. Eat the greens, stupid! Eat! Suds gather, wash after wash. A feast fit for a real man awaits. Enough to satisfy an unlovable ego and a ballooning head. Quarter to 11. Waterworks time.
He'll be back for dessert. Poached eggs and waffles wait for him in the morning. I’ve fixed him a large cup of orange juice. Is he coming back?
The puppeteer works hard to keep the days turning. I imagine watching myself from afar- a fly on the counter, peering from behind the kettle at this strange woman. She's scary, mentally deranged. I’m drooling by the kitchen table, a pool forming on my blouse. In a trance of lonely contemplation. I’ll click and chime the days away. No words, just emotion. Cleaning and humming…scrubbing and mumbling…smacking and screaming.
At sprinkler time, I’ll waltz at sprinkler time over to his cabinet. The glass will always be half full. It’ll dry out, supplies are running low. I am turning yellow and sour. Bitter without words and lost in my own shoes. I’ll be barefoot by next sundown. The hand that pours will grow lazy. Too shaky to scrub, but just right for plating dinner. A ladle throttled by my constant grasp is ready for every whim and hunger of the man I despise.
I do wonder about his feelings towards me. Mostly when my eyes are pressed to the glass, and no other thought seems urgent. I’ve established how his eyes feel about my existence, but not that thumping little heart. I bet it’s black with rage and killing him from the inside. I’ll be waiting at the pearly white gates.
I’ll snap out of it eventually, like an automated sprinkler. Eyes wide and gaze fixed I’ll become him. The scrubber has started scrubbing on its own after all. The ladle stirs in its pot. I’m ready to evolve. And so, a moustache will sprout above my lips, my cheeks will hollow. I’ll shoot for the ceiling and swallow an apple. He’ll turn in his grave somewhere, the heartless man. What to wear, I will ask myself. A navy suit? His favourite. Yes.
Aftershave clings to my neck, whiskey on my breath. My skin is stubbled and my hands are rough. I’ve fastened my tie far too tight. I stomp about the place in his freshly shined loafers, my feet slip around inside. They don’t fit. He’ll roll over in his grave, and then some. I never liked my dresses anyway. Foolish, childish garment.
The front door opens at my command. Just a wave of the hand.
I’m stepping out with the men. The car awaits me. Hold on. I’m going to stop and check my watch just like every other husband. Mouse stew is packed for lunch. Delicious.
Time to go.