Fiction: Honey, I have a Story

“Honey, I’m proud of you,” Krissy said. She reached across the pile of magazines and newspapers, shifting her weight forward, and took her husband’s hands in her own.

“Thanks.” Richard didn’t want to tell her; the truth would have to wait. For now he’d celebrate the occasion with her and be proud of his accomplishment.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said, standing. “Run down to the store and pick up some champagne, and I’ll cook something special.”

She was excited, she meant well.

But so had he.
--
The vinyl seats were cold, but Richard didn’t mind; he welcomed the frigid air and its unshakeable reality. He lit a cigarette for the first time in months. He was going to take his time.

He imagined his wife rushing around the kitchen, scrounging up food she thought he liked because he had received the best news of his life: a $500 check made out to Richard Mealer. Attached was a brief note of congratulations.

He recalled the gaiety of his wife as she burst through the screen door with the half-opened manila envelope: “You finally did it!” He grabbed the envelope in ignorance. He smiled, scanning the acceptance letter, and a wave of accomplishment rolled over him. Only then had it hit him.

It’s amazing the problems $500 can solve, Richard thought. Before the check, their marriage had stalled: they had stopped making love and ignored each other. Krissy threatened for a divorce monthly, but Richard knew she couldn’t stomach being alone. Instead, she worked full-time as a waitress in a local coffee shop; to make ends meet, he laid ceramic floor tile. He pulled into the parking lot, stomping his cigarette out on the way inside.

Despite the past, he feared letting her down. He had taken the vow of ‘for richer, for poorer…until death do us part’ and meant it. He’d proven that, Richard convinced himself as he grabbed the cheapest bottle of champagne he could find. She’d never know the difference.
--
Richard parked under the covered porch, prepared. He wanted another smoke, but he couldn’t do that to Krissy.

The smell of spaghetti and garlic bread greeted him when he opened the door. His wife had changed into a black silk dress that better suited her curves a few years earlier.

“Whadda ya think?"

“Swell.”

"The spaghetti’s done.”

“I’m gonna change,” Richard said, setting down the bottle.

He changed out of his tattered jeans into a wrinkled pair of khakis. He knew he must tell his wife; the illusion wouldn’t last forever.

“Honey, I have a story,” Richard said as he walked into the kitchen and took his wife’s out-of-shape body into his hands in disgust.