Writer's Rebirth

Quirks

In the forest the air is still and serene. 

Joe Boatwright walks on, feeling little dewdrops of blood fall from his fingertips with each step. 

All the while, he thinks of his wife... 

How little he understood what she was capable of.

Standing on a mountainside cliff, he looks both ways and sets down his briefcase, wincing as the stab wound in his shoulder aches. He pulls off his flannel shirt, peeling it off the parts of his skin that have caked with blood before tossing it in the car, the one he plans to roll down a cliff and destroy. 

He bandages himself with duct tape. It's sticky, and it feels horrible to plaster over a gaping wound. But it would have to do for the time being. He pulls on a black thermal and a navy parka from the trunk. 

When Joe walks past the backseat window, he halts his steps.

 In his reflection, he sees little specks of blood still on his face. 

He looks closer at the blood, smearing what he can off of his cheeks, still leaving behind a couple flecks on his forehead. 

What a mess, he thinks to himself. 

But the flecks of blood on his face, like the pain in his shoulder and the corpse sitting in the front seat of the car, would disappear soon enough. 

_______________________

-ONE WEEK EARLIER-

~

"We can always try again."

That was the only sentence shared between Ainsley and Joe Boatwright as they drove home, and it was the only thing Joe had the courage to say. When the thirty minutes of driving passed with no other exchange of words, he stiffened in the silence, wondering what to say, if anything at all. His wife's rigidity hardened against him like papier-mâché over a balloon.

To be fair, terminating a pregnancy never really made for great conversation starters. It had certainly made Ainsley change from her usual chatty self to a complete mute. Back at the clinic, she had hardly said a word.

"Yes, we can try again perhaps," she finally assured him once they reached the end of their driveway. "But now is not a good time."

Joe simply nodded and smiled, taking her hand in his and giving it a light squeeze. She squeezed it back with a brief tug, looking up to give him a small smile before going inside.

On the fridge in their kitchen was a photo magnet of his nephew, Liam. He was days old, his sleepy head posed on top of his resting arms, his eyes shut and his face pink, a light blue beanie covering what little downy hair he had on his head. 

It was when he saw the magnet that he first brought up the idea of having children to Ainsley. Looking back, he wasn't sure how serious he was on having children. The picture gave him a fleeting moment of longing. 

"Maybe, someday," was all Ainsley had said with an earnest smile, tacking on the magnet beside a Thai food takeout menu and a three-year-old wedding invitation, one she may or may not have RSVP'd too.

From a two-dollar coupon in the mail for a beauty product she'd never buy, to the junk letters from Publisher's Clearing House, if it was printed on paper it never left the house. Birthday cards, business receipts, and tax records were stacked everywhere in little piles. Joe decided that every woman had her way of going about things, and that not throwing things away was simply one of her quirks.

She had other quirks about her that Joe let slip more often than not. Often times he'd find them stowed away in their walk in closet in the form of leather Hermès bags and Christian Louboutins. They were always in boxes, but the tags were removed, of course, and for good reason. There were a couple of calfskin handbags shoved away in there, and they could've been anywhere from two to twenty thousand dollars.

 But of course, why would she want him to know how much she'd spent on designer handbags and shoes? They could afford it, hence, the subject had no place on the table.

Looking back on that evening, Joe wondered why he hadn't said anything about her hoarding and spending. The money they had made from the print shop and from Joe's writing career had certainly been plentiful but not endless. 

In the end, he always chalked it up to retail therapy. Joe was no more innocent of it than her, and the brand new Tesla in the driveway proved it.

He guessed that every wife on Earth, no matter how loving and good they were, still came with their quirks.

As Joe stood looking at the magnet, Ainsley snuck up behind him on the balls of her feet, reaching up to kiss him on his neck where his hairs ran thin. Another one of her quirks.

"Don't think about that too much," she said. "It will hurt your heart."

Joe walked by the kitchen the next day to see the fridge magnet hidden. Atop the magnet was her doctor's aftercare instructional sheet. A daily log of medications, do's and dont's, and helpline numbers, but no indication of "maybe, someday," still in existence. 

This was a rough patch, Joe thought. One of many in an eight year marriage. It would fix itself.

 It always did.