We Could Get By

xi.

"It's Tuesday," Sweeney said absently, unfolding that morning's paper. A gull cawed outside the kitchen window, no doubt begging for scraps.

Nellie's face fell, as did her heart. It cracked right in two, loud enough that she thought Sweeney would certainly have heard it, but he was thoroughly absorbed in the paper. She set her rolling pin down on the counter, letting it roll off the edge and onto the floor. He did not even look up at her. "Whaddaya mean, 'It's Tuesday'?"

"You asked what day it is, and I said that it's Tuesday." Sweeney reached for the tumbler of gin she had poured him as if there was no conceivable way anything could possibly be wrong with what he'd said. The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window caught in his hair and made it shine like the ruffled feathers of a crow. Even so, Nellie contemplated snatching the glass from him and smashing it onto the floor. Had she been holding a pie in her spidery fingers, it would have crashed promptly to the ground.

"What have ya got goin' on in that 'ead of yours that you can't remember your own fucking anniversary?" Nellie's voice rose with every word until she was yelling, an anger that - until now - Sweeney had been unfamiliar with. He cursed under his breath. This was far from another case of bickering taken a bit too harshly. She scooped a ball of dough from off the counter and into her hands, throwing it hard against the floured surface.

"Nell-"

"Don't you dare 'Nellie' me, you great useless thing! I ask so little of ya- so bloody little, and ya can't even do that! I cook and I clean and I run a business and cater to ya on top of that! And you can't even find it in ya to remember our goddamn anniversary?" Nellie's hand closed around the handle of the butcher's knife she kept hanging on the wall. She stalked towards the table, inching closer with every word. He remained rooted to his spot in the kitchen, suddenly acutely aware that he had no defense (and that, even if he had, it would have done him more harm than good). "What excuse have ya got, hm? 'I was too busy, Nellie'? 'Oh, Nellie, it jus' slipped me mind'? 'I'm still so stuck in the past that I can't bother to pay attention to my own fucking wife, Nellie'?"

She slammed the blade of the knife into the polished wood table top mere inches from his hand, the sound so loud and close that it made Sweeney flinch just slightly. Socks hissed and fled from under the table to the safety of the space beneath the sofa. The well-worn cleaver gleamed threateningly.

"Ya don't even listen to me, do ya? Everything I say jus' goes right on past ya head, don't it? 'Anything you say, Nellie'. Anything I say, huh? I- Look at ya, sittin' like a lump and lettin' me cry." She slumped, deflated, into the chair across from him, big brown eyes red with the tears she fought to keep from rolling down her cheeks. Mrs. Lovett heaved a shaky sigh. The barber only looked at her, no trace of his thoughts lining his ever-pensive face. "Did ya ever even wanna marry me, Sweeney?"

Her voice cracked, and she cursed herself inwardly. His expression was hard, carved straight from marble. Somewhere in there, he had to have been bothered by what she said, even just a little. In a perfect world, he would have rushed to comfort her. In a perfect world, he would not have forgotten in the first place. She unstuck the knife from the table and pointed it at the door.

"Get out."

-

Bundled in the comfort of their sheets, Nellie sniffled miserably. Socks had curled himself up on Sweeney's pillows, watching Nellie's melancholy display with a lazy flick of his tail. She had closed the shop for the day, drawn the shades, flipped the sign in the window to "Sorry, We Are Closed". She was far from sorry.