Allan Guthrie - Call Me, I'm Dying

7:15 p.m.

Every year on the fifth of June we pretend were married. This year is no different.

I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.

Ill get the soup, he says, getting to his feet.

Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.

I dont know, Im guessing. I dont cook. I dont want to cook. Im not paid to cook.

James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.

Doesnt bother me.

Im easy, so they say.

The food is a bonus.

Makes the sex easier.

* * * *

7:16 p.m.

You need a hand? I ask him, knowing how hell reply.

Im dandy.

Sure enough. From the kitchen: Im dandy.

Hes not that.

Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and hes wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.

Could have made an effort.

Well shower later.

I always insist on that.

* * * *

7:17 p.m.

He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, Id ladle it out in the kitchen.

Its not me.

If it was me, Id have passed on the appetizer, gone straight for the main course. Takeaway pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.

Each to his own, okay?

He places the pot on the table, takes off the oven gloves, removes the lid with a dramatic gesture and says, Voila! French onion.

Now theres a surprise.

Smells good, I say. And I shouldnt be harsh on him. It does smell good.

* * * *

7:18 p.m.

There we are, he says. Shall we say Grace?

I nod.

Then he hits me with thisyou orme thing, where hes just being polite cause we both know its not going to be me. I grew up with it, and look how Ive turned out.

On you go, I say.

He nods, clears his throat, closes his eyes, adopts a tone somewhere between respectful and agonized. For what we are about to receive, he says, may the Lord make us truly thankful.

Thats it. Good.

I blink. Pretending Ive had my eyes closed too.

Hes not fooled, but he joins in the game anyway.

Its all a game.

I always win.

I dont think he understands the rules. Id ask him but I cant be bothered. I just want to get this over with.

I have things Id rather be doing.

Im liable to yawn and I dont want to upset him.

* * * *

7:19 p.m.

Nice? he asks.

I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. Lovely.

The key is to use plenty of butter.

Thats it.

I lower the spoon, let it rest in the bowl. Im not taking another sip. Butter. Plenty of it.

Is he trying to kill me?

I smile.

He smiles back. His hand edges across towards me

You dont mind? he says.

Intimacy. Yes, I do mind. But I let him hold my hand anyway.

* * * *

7:20 p.m.

Your soups getting cold, he says.

Fine by me.

Not having any more?

Saving myself for the main course, I tell him.

Oh, he says, disappointed but understanding.

Makes me want to smack a frying pan off his jaw.

At least hes let go of my hand.

I get a flash of him panting. In my ear. Sticky breath, getting faster and faster. Im moaning, telling him hes the best, oh, yeah, the fucking best.

He likes it when I swear.

He comes and then he cries.

Wets my hair.

Every time.

Every year.

After dessert.

* * * *

7:21 p.m.

Hes talking. Hes bought a boat. Not a fancy yacht, oh no. He laughs. Tells me about his boat.

I nod and smile, tuned out, wondering what Im missing on TV.

White noise, his voice.

I smile from the heart, cause that rhymes.

Get a smile back, bless him.

I wonder if hell be hard or if Im going to have to play with him first.

* * * *

7:22 p.m.

So excited babbling about his new boat, he spills soup on himself.

I grab a napkin, dab at his chin.

He likes that.

I wonder what precedent Ive just set.

He excuses himself, says he has to change his shirt.

At least he doesnt ask me to do it for him.

I offer to clear the plates away.

He wont let me.

Always the gentleman.

* * * *

7:25 p.m.

Back again wearing an almost identical shirt.

Took him long enough.

I heard the toilet flush, though. All that soup. Runs right through you.

Voila!

Must be the onions.

You had enough? he asks.

Plenty, I say, only just managing to keep my hand from patting my stomach. A false gesture if ever there was one and Im a better actress than that.

Sure you dont want a hand? I ask as he starts clearing away the plates.

Just stay where you are, he says. Keep looking beautiful.

* * * *

7:27 p.m.

Still smarting from that comment.

Beautiful.

Bastard.

* * * *

7:28 p.m.

The casserole dish is on the table, steaming.

Beef stew. Yep, same as last year.

Predictable, is our James the Sarcastic.

Smells good, though. Im going to have to eat.

I dont want to. I want to punish him.

He might like that.

Shall I be mother? he says.

We know hes going to be mother. I dont know why he asks. Yeah, I say. Its a role that suits him.

He slops some of the stew onto my plate. More? he says.

I nod. I hate myself.

* * * *

7:29 p.m.

The beefs tender, melting into soft strings in my mouth. The sauce is sharp, peppery.

I swallow. Lick my teeth.

Good, darling?

Darling.

Have to play along. Yes,dear, I say.

He puts his hand on mine again.

This is nice, isnt it? he says.

Lovely, I tell him. Fuckwit.

* * * *

7:30 p.m.

The phone rings. Its persistent.

He doesnt move.

Answer it, I say.

Not tonight, he says. This is a special night. We dont want any interruptions.

So maybe you should have turned off the ringer.

Its annoying, I say. And it is. Least he could have done was set up his answer machine to take it. At home, four rings is all you get. If I dont pick up by then, youre on to the machine.

Still ringing.

You dont have an answerphone?

Yeah, he says.

So how come it hasnt kicked in?

Dunno, he says. Takes a while.

I lay down my knife and fork. Go sort it, I say. Turn it off.

He looks sheepish as he gets out of his seat. May as well answer it, then, he says.

Course, by the time he gets there, itll have stopped. Id bet on it.

The phones at the other end of the room. Amazingly its still ringing when he picks it up.

Hello, he says. Then gives his number.

Doesnt say anything else.

Just listens.

Then puts the phone down gently, like its hurting.

* * * *

7:31 p.m.

Wrong number? I ask.

He shakes his head, still standing there, hand on the receiver, receiver in its cradle.

Not much of a conversationalist, then? I say. What did they say?

He makes his way back to the table, silent.

Well? I say.

You wont believe me, he says. He looks bemused, like a stranger just hit him with a fish.

Youd be surprised, I tell him.

It was a man, he says. I didnt recognize his voice.

He stops. Bites his bottom lip.

I dont have all night, I say. More to the point,he doesnt have all night. He isnt paying for that. Just till midnight.

He said my name. He looks at me. Looks away.

And? I make a circular motion with my fingers to try to speed him up.

He told me I had thirty minutes to live.

* * * *

7:32 p.m.

Thats weird, I have to admit.

Why would anyone say that to you? I ask him.

He doesnt answer, just sits at the table staring into his plate. He picks up his fork, holds it for a second, drops it. It clatters against the plate.