Short story #2 – those eyes.

I heard her car pull up in the drive way. I looked out of the kitchen window to see her walk up to the front door, hair lightly tussled by the wind. She’s beautiful, I thought. I couldn’t wait to look into her eyes.
She had big, brown eyes. The kind that gave an exotic air. They wouldn’t look at you, but into you. They were comforting and listening.
She came in, where I greeted her at the door, in my apron. I planted a kiss on her forehead and asked her how her day was.
“You’ve started dinner?” she asked, seeming to ignore my question.
She noticed I’d had my apron on. I told her yes as we walked to the kitchen and she took a bottle of wine and placed it on the counter.
“Smells delicious, honey. How was everything at work?” she started as she flipped through the mail.
None of this was out of the ordinary. It was perfect. I loved getting home before her on Thursday nights and having dinner prepared as she walked through the door. This was our date night. A routine that broke up the routine.
We’d been married for 6 years and this was something we’d done the last two.
It was a Thursday, two years ago, when I’d first beat her home. It was a fluke. I’d left the office for lunch that day and, while on the way back to the office, the car overheated. My boss gave me the day to get the car worked on and I got home earlier than usual.
She’d had one of her womanly appointments that day. She came home, flustered. She clearly had something on her mind and was confused as to why I was home so early. I’d attempted to tell her of the shit day I’d had but I read something on her face much deeper than what I had been through.
“I have cancer” she said with such a dullness that I needed her to say it again.
She did. Barely.
The tears came before the end of the phrase and I didn’t know what to do far from comfort and cradle her.
It was breast cancer. Two years ago today she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
It was two years ago today that I’d buried my wife. Every Thursday… every single Thursday, I beat her home. I cook dinner for her and wait for her to walk through the door. To look into her eyes.

(Completely fictional. Just toying around with new styles and strokes, ya know?)


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