He saw red. She dared raise her voice at him. Little, insignificant imp that she was, strutting around in her black pumps and red dress. Telling, no ordering him to change his plans; because her girls night out could not be moved just to accommodate his plans to spend the evening with his friends over a game of football and grilled chicken. “Well, go ahead,” she had quipped, “its better all round isn’t it?” But he needed her at home to play hostess. Who was gonna keep the drinks and food coming if she was off, gallivanting with her friends? Even if it was a monthly ritual? Couldn’t she be sacrificial this one time? So what if she had missed it for 2 months in a row because his plans had interfered with her plans? So he said and she said and they all said one word too many. His chest heaved with restrained anger, and his hands twitched and jumped, restlessly wishing to strike a blow and release the pressure mounting in his head. She was oblivious to his struggle to remain civilized. Chattering on and on and on.
And then it happens. He watches himself as through another’s eyes, in slow motion, he watches. Heaving like a frustrated bull, he bears down on her with pure menace in his eyes. Only then does she realize she has crossed the end zone. She starts to step back, reflexively raising both hands and voice. She cannot believe that he will carry out his seeming intention, but she’s already wailing.
Like a bull that sees a red flag, her defensively defenseless position excites his awakened rage. He descends, fists pumping, mouth snarling, spittle dribbling; he is no man no longer, just a bull in the ring. He does battle but who is his opponent? Slowly it dawns on him, mind re-entering the white zone- she is not fighting back. Because she can’t. Like a bulldozer, he has wrecked his beautiful but fragile structure. She lies there, quietly weeping into the Persian rug. Her face is a battle ground. Fallen soldiers everywhere. Well, she won’t be going anywhere tonight. But he will. He will dash to the Pharmacy for some band aid, medicated spirit, and who knows, some paracetamol would be in order. She must have a splitting headache. And So It Begins.
To be continued next weekend…
© 2012 – 2017, Jennifer Nkem-Eneanya. All rights reserved.