I wonder what mother had done, so many years before? Did she rush out to greet father with open arms, before he could even open the door? Did she eagerly await his entry, and then spring to him when he entered, like a delighted puppy? Did she pretend nothing was out of the ordinary, and let him make the first move?
It was hard to remember. It seemed so long ago that she had died, leaving myself, my father, and my two younger sisters motherless. I sighed. I had been the one to take her place in the family, going by the recipes and instructions mother had given me before she died. And now I was the one to celebrate my anniversary. It was almost funny, although I suppose that is the way life works. But now all I had to go by was memories of an anniversary long passed.
It had been a special day, of course. She worked as hard as she could to clean the house, and wax the floor, and even make us all snacks to take to our friends' houses. And when father called to say he'd soon be back from his training, she spent the next hour prettying herself up. I saw her just a few minutes before she left for the restaurant with father, and I remember thinking she looked like a princess. Of course you could tell it was still her, but she somehow looked so much more beautiful. She was, really, a slit of beauty, surrounded by the fur of her mink jacket. But even if I was following the same routine-sans children, unfortunately-I couldn't help but worry that perhaps mother's first hadn't been quite the same as their last. I mean, everyone knows that the first anniversary is supposed to be the most romantic. Should I have made dinner arrangements at a fancier restaurant? Should I have not made any dinner arrangements at all? I am a good cook, after all. Of course, we're not pressed for money, and you're not supposed to cook on your anniversary. So maybe that was a silly idea of mine. But I couldn't help but worry.
He walked through the door. I didn't even notice until the door started to open. As quickly as possible, I ran from the bedroom to the door to hug him. I stopped when I saw that he held something behind his back.
"For my wife," he said slowly, without a hint of the silliness so evident when we first married, "on our first anniversary." Reaching from behind his back he pulled out a bouquet of flowers.
"You shouldn't have!" I exclaimed, knowing full well he had too. That's how it had always been. On birthdays and anniversaries, father always brought home flowers, after all.
I went to put the flowers in a vase I had already prepared, and came back to hug him. He hugged me back, and kissed me solidly.
He ended the kiss abruptly. I stood back and looked at his face.
"Thanks for the flowers," I said.
"It was nothing." We paused. We didn't know what to say.
"So," I asked, eventually, "how was work at the hospital?"
"It was, you know, just a day." He paused, looked at me, and continued. "A day made all the much better from anticipation of coming home."
"Oh dear. Did things not go so well?"
"It didn't go so well, no."
"Oh my! What happened?" I asked. He sat down, looked at me a bit sadly, and responded.
"Well, do you remember Mr. Watashi?"
"Yes, what of him?"
"His arteries got clogged. It could have been fatal."
I giggled. "You know I don't understand your medical terms."
"Basically, his heart stopped-"
"Stopped working?"
"No. It's working, all right. But the blood has nowhere to go."
"Oh my!"
"Yes, you can say that again. I had to call a specialist in, and get him serious medical attention."
"That's terrible."
"I don't think he'll ever completely recover. Sometimes-" he paused, and looked at the floor.
"Yes?"
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing more harm than good. General care is so outdated. If that man had a specialist from the beginning, it never would have been gotten that far."
I smiled at him. "Well, I'm sure whatever you're doing is the right thing. You're very smart."
"Sometimes, sometimes-" he paused. "I'm sorry. It's our anniversary. We shouldn't be talking about this."
I laughed. "No, go ahead. It's your right to talk about whatever you want."
"No, no I shouldn't. I'm being selfish. I'm sorry."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't talk about that on our anniversary. I mean, it is supposed to be a special day for the two of us. You can talk about work later."
He looked up at me and sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. So, you said you would make dinner reservations at the Tenei Moofu?"
"Yes, I did."
"Great. Let's get ready to go."
**
"I don't know," I said, "This is awfully far to walk."
"I thought it might be fun to go for, you know, a little stroll," he protested.
"Yes, you're right. Good idea!" I said, and smiled cheerfully. He was awfully clever.
For a long we walked in silence, hands around each other's waists. It was a while before he spoke again.
"You know-", he said, waiting for me to look back at him. "In the year we've been married, I've come to love you more every day."
What a nice thing for him to say! I smiled.
"Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible.
"When I first met you, I never would have dreamed that one day you would be my wife."
"Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible.
"And once I realized I loved you, I never thought you would be able to love me back."
"But I do."
"And I'm glad of it," he said.
"Thanks," I said, as sweetly as possible. He sighed. It took him a while to resume our conversation.
"You know, I was thinking, today..."
"Yes?"
"Just, just out of curiosity-" He paused. "Just out of curiosity, how do you see yourself?"
I laughed. "What a silly question!" And it was, really.
"Maybe. But how?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you see yourself as my wife? Do you see yourself as an independent person who happens to be married to me? Do you see yourself as the leader of a future family? Do you see yourself as the heart of the home?"
"I don't-" I paused. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"What are you?" he asked, almost yelling. I looked at him, unsure of what he meant.
"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean."
"What I'm asking is - never mind," he said, almost apologetically. "Never mind. It's a stupid question. I shouldn't have asked it."
"It's not a stupid question. Just explain to me what you mean! I'm sure I'll understand eventually."
"Never mind. It was a stupid question."
"Oh, all right, then."
**
The food really was quite good. He had ordered beef, and it arrived grilled to perfection, with a wide selection of sauces to dip it in. He had also ordered a sampler plate of sashimi. There were many different types of fish available, and they all looked very good. The octopus, I recall, seemed particularly fresh.
He looked up at me, and finished the food that was in his mouth. "So, done anything special today?"
"Not really," I answered, "just what needs to be done."
"Not doing anything different for our anniversary?" He paused. "I mean, I'm just curious. I'd think you'd want to take the day off."
"Well, I didn't cook today, of course. Except for breakfast and lunch."
"You don't have to do that, you know. It's not a big deal for you to drop by a restaurant, or just order food. I've told you, we're not pressed for money."
"I know that. But-"
"But what?"
"Well, it doesn't seem right. Mother never would have gone out for food. And she wasn't poor, either."
"She wouldn't have gone out, even on her anniversary?"
"Especially not then."
"Especially?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
"I mean-" he paused. "I mean, why do you say 'especially not on her anniversary?'"
"Oh. That. Well, I don't know. I guess mother was always cleaning one thing or another. But on her anniversary, I remember it was so much - so much more important. The work had acquired a certain intentness. It was, really, an infatuation."
"I'm sure it was. But it still seems odd."
"Well-" I thought for a second on how to phrase what I was thinking. "If you could have been there, I think you would know what I mean. The cooking, the cleaning - even as a child I knew it wasn't really necessary, that mother could have gotten hired help if she wanted. She did it because she wanted to. It was there that I realized that the chores, chores other people like to call 'domestic', are, really, love."
"But there's so many other ways-" he continued. I cut him off.
"No there's-" I paused, embarrassed at having interrupted him. He motioned for me to continue.
"There isn't. Well, maybe there's other things, like kissing, like how you treat the person, but that's of less importance."
"Less importance?"
"Yes. Cooking and cleaning - you're showing the person that you care. That you want them to have a good place to live, to have good food to eat."
"That's of more importance than how you act?"
"Yes!" I hated to raise my voice. But that was something you weren't supposed to question. Not even him.
"Okay," he replied. "I mean, I'm just curious. I'm not disagreing. But, well, even if that shows that you love me, then how does it show that I love you?"
I paused and contemplated the question.
"But of course you love me!" I answered, confused.
"I know that!" he yelled, suddenly. He paused for a few seconds, calming down. "I mean, of course I love you. But how do I show it?"
"No, No, No." I responded. "Of course, I'm not - I'm not doubting you. I'm just saying, of course you love me! You're my husband!"
"I know. But, well, how am I supposed to show it?"
"You, you don't need to show. After all, you're my husband. Of course you love me."
**
"So," he said, "that was great. I love that restaurant. I'm glad you got reservations there."
"It's the same one my father used to take my mother to, you know."
"No, I didn't know that. But-" he paused. "But I'm not surprised."
"Of course not. Let me get your jacket," I answered. He started wriggling his way out of the jacket.
"Let me get that in the bedroom," I said, hinting as subtly as possible.
"Oh yes. Of course." He walked over to the bedroom, slipped out of his jacket, and went to hang it up on the rack. I stopped him, took the jacket, and hanged it up myself. When I finished, I paused, went to sit on the bed, and looked up at him.
"So what now?" I asked.
"Huh?"
I looked down, pretending to be embarrassed. "Aren't you supposed to..."
After a few seconds, he spoke.
"I love you," he said, superfluously.
"And I love you too."
He put his hands on my dress and unzipped the back. I sat there, motionless. When he was done I stood up and let him slip the dress off of me. Similarly, I undressed him, taking his suit and resting it on a chair, folding it as quickly as possible.
We looked at each other. He walked up to me, held me, and slipped off my bra. I turned off the light, slipped out of my panties, and dragged him onto the bed.
He couldn't. I tried. But he couldn't.
**
I woke up in the middle of the night, forlorn. I rolled out of the spoon position and stared at the ceiling.
I don't know why I was so concerned. It wasn't that I had been particularly looking forward to the - how do I put this - physical consummation. But everybody knows that's supposed to happen on anniversaries! In a silly way I felt guilty, like when you don't drink on New Year's, or when you don't put out a koi for Boy's Day. Even if you don't like drinking, even if koi kites are silly, that's what you're supposed to do! Everyone knows that!
I remember when I was a girl, and the mysterious noises from my parent's room. I never knew what the noises were, I never even knew until I myself was married, really. But...I'm sure that mother made them more often than I. I'm sure of it. And it was my first year of marriage. Oh god. That was part of being a wife. Part of your duty. Oh god, what was wrong with me? I was letting my husband, and therefore myself, down.
I rolled back into the spoon position, pressing myself into him harder. He didn't stir. I cried myself to sleep asleep.
FIN
**
Hello! Hope you enjoyed the story!
It started as "That Crawling Baby Blues", but on a responder's advice I decided to make the darkness more subtle, so I took the ideas and started over. Plus my general idea that if I knew Kasumi in real life, I'd kick her sorry ass!!! ^_^
I owe a big debt on this one to Mr. Lewis and especially Mr. Lawson, both of whose stories and comments more-or-less inspired this thingy here.
This was *going* to contain my first lemon scene, but conventional lemon scenes are so blech to read, and what I was doing was so surreal, that I cut it. That was to be the climax of the fic (no pun intended), but I think I like the story's feel as it is, without one.
I would appreciate all comments and suggestions. Flames are welcome, as long as they're verbose ^_^.
Thanks for reading,
Jeff