The Cacographer

16 Steps to a Happier Marriage (Draft #2)

Drumming his fingers gently at first, then rapidly, the man with the flaccid moustache and tired eyes sat. Reaching for his tea (English Breakfast, no cream or milk, three cubes of sugar), he stopped his hand, and set it down irritably again upon the porcelain table. He peered out of the corner of his eye without moving, looking at his wife of thirty eight years. A dark curling hair sprouted from the underside of her chin, twisting about and catching the light, shooting sparkles. There was a mole protruding from her chin nearly half an inch, and looked like someone had flung a burnt marshmallow at her face. He could see her eyelashes, overdone and bent from that’s great globs of mascara she threw on her face every morning before he’d even allowed himself a shave.
        He harrumphed. Settling himself even further into a wicker chair that no one could settle into, no matter how hard they tried, he looked out at the street before them, turtlenecks and sports coats, hip slit skirts and knee high boots. He watched one woman, wearing a royal blue dress and grey jacket open at the front, walking toward and then past and away from him, her large buttocks jouncing with each step. His wife did not miss his eyes bouncing with each clicking step, nor did she miss his scowl after she was gone. She, in turn, harrumphed and struck her cup (Coffee, milk on the side which she’d forgotten to pour, one cube of sugar) with her spoon. He raised one eyebrow, and watched irritably as she stirred her coffee, though the sugar was long dissolved and the milk sat miserably hidden behind the menu and the sugar pot. She, in turn watched the coffee swirling faster and faster, furiously twirling the spoon under her glower. Suddenly, satisfied, she released the spoon, sending it spinning hazardously. She drooped back in to her chair like she’d been dropped, and looked out over the Parisian streets.
        Scarves were just beginning to show themselves, and she took it as a sign that winter was returning, like pear trees erupting in flame. Another woman appeared, one among a dozen, but this one was wearing a bright red skirt cut off two thirds way down her thigh. She watched the red skirted woman pass them, the bulges in the back of her skirt bouncing up and down with each stride. She also watched her husband, who, despite this morning’s red swatch across his face from her hand, smiled.
        Glowering, she brought the coffee to her lips in an almost violent gesture, nearly sloshing herself, and slurped nosily, glaring at her husband the whole time. He winced, turning his sidelong eye away from the rhythmic red skirt back to her crooked nose and sweltering gaze. Her eyes narrowed at him, and he, wishing to avoid this particular vision, snapped shut his right eye, leaving only the wide street of Paris in his sight.
        Aghast and offended, she snatched the sugar bowl, and took off the top, preparing to unleash a sweet fury against her husband. A single cube of sugar bounced off his closed eye and plopped into the sugar amongst his wife’s cackle. Refusing to flinch, the man kept his eye closed and reached for his spoon. Dipping it into tea, he tapped the cube until it was mush and took a sip, all the while avoiding the vision of ire to his right.
        She, quivering, sat back down, defeated but with one lip still curled. Offended that her attack had no effect upon her close eyed husband, she pondered, lifting her reading glasses off her chest and twirling them by the gaudy chain that secured them around her neck. Looking around the table, searching for some inspiration, her eyes suddenly widened as she spied the nearly full pitcher of milk, recently uncovered by her removal of the sugar bowl. Delighted, she nearly flung the glasses from her hands, and they were only saved from an uncertain destruction upon the cobbles by the multicolored chain of baubles around her neck, and instead, bounced anti-climatically upon her hearty breasts.
        Clutching the handle of the pitcher in her hand, she looked up at her husband, ensuring that his right eye was still closed to her actions. Then, cautiously, surreptitiously, she brought the pitcher over to his now four cubes of sugar tea, and emptied half of the milk into his cup. Triumphant, she slammed the pitcher down on the porcelain table, creating a magnificent clamor. Her husband, startled, bolted his eye open and saw his wife, sitting smug and satisfied, looking out over the Parisians.
        The man looked at her suspiciously, trying to ascertain what heinous act had brought her so much satisfaction. While still scrutinizing her jowled face, he lifted his tea to his lips and took a deep sip, which he immediately sprayed all over himself. Gagging, he looked at his wet lap and his chortling wife. He refused to give her the satisfaction, however, and keeping his right eye trained on the woman, drained the entire cup into his mouth. Repressing the shudder that followed the milky drink, he slammed his eye shut again, disregarding the now annoyed woman to his right.
        She snorted in disgust, and after a moment of thought, reached under her chair and brought out this morning’s newspaper. She thwacked it against the air, creasing it across the middle and padded her chest until her hand closed up her glasses, suspended by a gaudy chain from her neck. Turning the pages, she found today’s crossword puzzle, already half full of her husband’s strict and upright letters, fine slashes attacking little boxes. She smiled with an obvious glee, and dug into her purse for a pen. She clicked it, extending the point to the paper. Her husband, upon hearing the click, twitched. Turning his head to a nearly imperceptible degree, he creaked open his right eye. His wife, a broad smile cutting across her face, clicked the pen rapidly before setting it to paper, adding one letter to 36 down. The husband’s eyes widened.
        The man, narrowing his eyes at his wife suddenly appeared to be caught in an extreme coughing fit, violently hacking and throwing his whole body into each explosion, flinging his head forward and nearly shouting his throat out. He enacted this performance for nearly one minute, with no response from his wife, who had continued clicking the pen, occasionally adjusting her glasses. Without so much of a glance at her mortally clogged husband, she pricked the pen against the paper, finishing off an ‘i’ on 24 across.
        Eyes wide open throughout his spasmodic attack, the husband saw that no reaction was forthcoming from wide set wife. Apparently deciding one last course of action was needed, he finished off his coughing fit with an extraordinary sneeze which shot him bodily into the porcelain table. The shudders rippled through the table, knocking over his empty cup and jostling the sugar bowl, until it reached the saucer holding a cup of coffee with 1 cube of sugar, and sent it hurtling onto his wife. Yelping, she stood up and seized a wad of napkins off of a neighboring table and thrust them into the wet spot across her white blouse, the offended crossword thrown to the ground. Her lip curled, and even as she continued to grind the napkins into her breasts, she picked up the dregs of her coffee cup, and looking pointedly at her husband, upturned the cup over the crossword puzzle.
        The man, his crossword puzzle destroyed, finally broke. Snarling, he reached deep into his pocket and flung a handful of Euros at his wife, one striking her smack on her plump cheek, leaving a red mark similar to the one he’d received this morning. She, offended not only by the attack but by the loss of money as well, shrieked and picked up the milk pitcher, aiming it at her husband. He, anticipating the assault of milk about to occur, flung himself from his chair, diving under the table. She, anticipating that he would anticipate the barrage, ducked and slung the remaining milk under the table. Irate, he bolted upright, narrowly missing the table on his way up and ran a hand over his mouth, trying to wipe off the milk dripping from his moustache in two streams. Putting one foot on the table, he prepared to launch himself at his girthy wife, who, seeing his wrinkles dissolved in milk and his moustache so sad and languid and sopping from the milk, began to giggle. And he, seeing his wife, suddenly looking so young, her blouse wet and nearly transparent, her eyes squinted in poorly repressed mirth, began to smile himself. The edges of his moustache rose as he grinned. Then, cackling, he hurled himself over the table on top of his shrieking wife. Tackling her, he seized her arms, and bent his milky moustache to her laughing face, and kissed her.
        He stood up first, and chuckling, helped her to her feet. Using napkins appropriated from other tables, they cleaned up their little table and chairs as best they could. They sat, and looking at each other, hair out of place and everything wet, held hands, and ordered another round.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 2:38:00 PM