Methodical, meticulous Deirdre Donn was unhappy. She and her husband Dave had fallen into a routine. Each had long given up on trying to pull the other out of this hole; which was a pity, as all they needed from one another was a boost.
Dave wasn't a bad man, he had just grown more fond of sport than his wife. Her first love was her work, as a pharmacist. While he swung clubs and followed his teams, Deirdre was left at home alone. There, she spent the evenings applying her trade to their failed chemistry.
She analyzed every part of their relationship: measured the length of hugs, the amount of words spoken over dinner, the distance between them in bed. She recorded it all in a journal under the heading, 'Side Effects and Indications'. Tallying the quantities, she concluded that the concentration of their love had been diluted so much by time, that it resembled a homeopathic remedy. Deirdre really didn't like homeopathy. And was outraged that her marriage was just a placebo; giving two lonely individuals mere peace of mind.
Once a sugar pill is outed it leaves a bitter taste. So, Deirdre decided that the best treatment for their mutual indifference, was for one of them to die.
She chose Dave.
Through crafty bookwork at the pharmacy, she made a large bottle of phenobarbital her own. She gave it a prominent position on the kitchen shelf — where Dave would never see it.
Daily, her hands would brush past it as she reached for seasoning. Her eyes were all over it whenever she fixed him a cup of tea. It made her heart pound to know she could end her torturous boredom at any given meal. Ironically, holding on to this incredible feeling was all that was sparing her husband's life.
It stuck her how masculine it was. Those broad shoulders. That one track mind that in one direction opened up a world of change and adventure, and in the other: covert patience and strength.
“Look at you, so packed full of danger, no man alive could rattle you.” she said to the bottle, and then she named it Mr. Brown.
From that moment on, she spoke to Mr. Brown at every opportunity. He was such a good listener. He never judged or reeled off advice. He only offered company and a solution.
One hot saturday morning, Deirdre found herself idling around the kitchen. Naked to escape the heat, she noticed his bold glint. With careful, trembling hands she took Mr. Brown to her bed. Drawing slight gasps and much emotion, she left him roll freely all over her body. Cold and hard he charted her curves and contours -found her peaks - ironed out the lines of time. Her sensuality awakened, she moaned:
“You're so cool, so heavy, Mr. Brown.”
Then, she heard Dave's key turn. She pushed her lover into the wardrobe, pulled the sheets taut, and plucked her own hairs from the pillow — all to a thundering song from her heart. After the crescendo she said:
“We must not be physical again, until I am free."
“I will wait.” replied Mr. Brown.
The months ran fast after that. Mr. Brown became quite the talker: “You look beautiful today, Deirdre.” “It's so clever the way you make the pot clean itself with boiling water.” “Mmmm Someone smells good.” and, “Tell me everything about your day.”
The compliments and chat evolved into a sincere and beautiful volley of sharing. Wanting more, Mr. Brown revealed he would sacrifice a part of his being, if it would mean he could have her to himself.
Deirdre agreed, and made Dave's favourite — blood red bolognese.
Once the sauce was ready, she undid Mr. Brown. She took him in her hand and emptied him onto the kitchen table. However, just as she was about to crush the tablets, she noticed the use by date was last month.
It was a terrible blow. Obviously the poison would still kill Dave, but serving substandard medication was against her code and nature. Her professional integrity would be in tatters, and Dave certainly wasn't worth that.
Heartbroken, she looked to her decapitated lover and bawled uncontrollably. She had baulked his potential, selfishly taken his best years and wasted them. For nothing. It was such familiar pain.
In the weeks that followed, the emotional release from mourning Mr. Brown gave her a lift. A sense that maybe there was another bottle out there that could meet her needs.
