Mrs’ birthday, fancy Italian joint - she might be a bitch but she was still my wife, after all, and she deserved to be spoilt (so she claims). Ever since she shat out our fourth kid she has become less of a loving wife and more of a screeching banshee who has invaded my peaceful life with her shrieking woman ways, her inability to keep the house clean, or even to keep her kids clean. She used to laugh at my jokes, but these days she doesn’t laugh at all. Watches a lot of daytime television though, titters away at Adrian Chiles, always finds time and energy to do her crappy little crosswords of course, the lazy cow.
Perhaps I had a vague hope that tonight would rekindle things. Maybe the meatballs would inspire her to meet my balls, for the first time in what? Years? Literal years. Too busy nagging me about bloody socks to even bother kissing me when I came home from a busy day at work, too busy asking me to stack the dishwasher and don’t put your shoes there again and can you please help the kids with their homework etc etc etc to even bother talking to me on my level, like an adult human – or on her level, on her knees, on the floor… We didn’t have sex anymore is the long and short of it (mostly the long, if you catch my drift), and while I got it from outside sources, I held a healthy ball of resentment towards my banshee live-in. Two balls, actually. My regular squeeze was out of town.
So, Italian restaurant, bottles of wine, and the most expensive pasta on the menu.
Bitch didn’t even bother to make conversation with me, just looked at her hands, clasped lightly together on the table in front of her, heavy diamond ring glinting in the yellow glow of the chandeliers light.
“Perhaps this evening you can forgetti your problems and enjoy yourself? Look all around you, beautiful people everywhere, and you’re the only one not smiling…”
She sighed, shifted in her seat, looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. I’m just worried about tomorrow, is all.” “Tomorrow?” It was Sunday tomorrow. It was my day off work. My lie in day. There was nothing to be worried about – I would start by sleeping til 11am, have the mrs bring me a coffee and a doughnut in bed, and watch football all afternoon. It was going to be perfect.
“Yeah. It’s Michael’s doctor’s appointment tomorrow. We find out if the cancer is gone or not.”
“He’ll be fine, he has my genes, he is strong.” I pause. “What time are you leaving? Will you fetch me breakfast before you go?”
She takes a very long breath in and her shaking hand grasps the wine glass in front of her. She takes a hearty swig, looks relieved, sets the glass back down.
“There.” I say, with a smile, and what I hoped was a mischievous glint in my eye. “Isn’t that nice? Don’t you feel better for a good drink?” I extend my hand across the table to hold hers, but she hesitates, does not reciprocate. My brows furrow in annoyance and I feel a vein bulge on my forehead. Just then the waitress appears with our dishes of pasta, notices my extended hand, the bulging vein, and the look on my wife’s face and hesitates in popping the plates down. “I…er…do you want me to come back later?”
Embarrassed, I snatch my hand back from across the table and glare at the woman “No, silly bitch. Our food will be cold then.” Shame she lacked brain cells, she could be a real looker with a nice rack and an ass you could lose your face in. She smiles a little, taken back, and places the dishes in front of us.
“Will that be all?” she asks politely, perhaps a tad frostily, directing this question towards my wife rather than me.
“Don’t look at her, I’m the one who is fucking paying. Everything’s fine. Bring me the cheese and then you can fuck off.” She left, and my attention turned to my wife, whose head was bowed, refusing to make eye contact.
“You think it’s funny to embarrass me in front of the service?”
“I’m sorry, love.” She says, looking across to me. “I am. Let’s try to enjoy our meal and forget this, OK?”
“Forgetti.” I correct her with a small smile, and she smiles back. First smile I’ve had off her since god knows when, actually. It felt good.
Hot ass waitress reappears with the cheese.
Grates for my wife first, I grind my teeth and as she turns to me, I smile sweetly.
I watch her boobs jiggle as she grates. “Tell me when to stop.”
I grin. I look at my wife, then back to the tits. “Sounds gouda to me.”
My wife chuckles a little, and I grin back. The grating continues.
And continues.
And continues.
And continues.
It’s surpassed comedy, and it is now uncomfortable for my wife to watch. I watch her passively, with my legs crossed and my fingers interlocked, a wolfish grin on my face. You are the reason I am doing this. I hope my body language is conveying to her. Dumb bitch. Embarrass me and I’ll do it back, three times as bad. The waitress has a tightlipped smile on her bimbo face. “Is that enough, sir?”
“If you stop now you are going to fusilli. Keep going.”
My wife didn’t even laugh.
The grating continued.
Now my dish before me was more cheese than plate, and rapidly heading towards more cheese than placemat.
“Bill. That’s enough.” Said my wife, lowering her knife and fork. “Enough. You are embarrassing me.”
“Feels good, right?” I say to her. “No, if I’m gonna stop, you’re gonna have to show penne-tence.”
But first, the cheese block runs out.
“The cheese is gone, sir.” Says the tits. “There is no more cheese.”
“Go get more.” I say, my eyes fixed on my wife. “I’ll wait.”
She shakes her head and leaves.
“Bill. You’re being unreasonable.”
“I’m the one who is being unreasonable? I take you to the most expensive restaurant in this town, treat you to wine and nice things, try to hold your hand, and you just freeze me out like I’m no-one?” My voice is raising now. “You won’t even have sex with me! I’m your husband! I deserve it! I pay for you to sit at home with the kids all day, and you won’t even bend over in return!”
My wife’s eyes are wide. Good. She deserves it. I’ve been patient for far too long. I’ve given her the best possible wife, paid for her house, her kids, her kitchen, the flashy ring on her finger… Only for her to treat me like I have leprosy. What a gold-digging bitch.
“We’re going to Wimpy next year. So long as you don’t wimp out” I say, settling back into my chair. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve been kicked in the back of the head and I’m reeling, and I fall out of my chair, dragging down the tablecloth and the dishes and the cheese with me. Things shatter, and the last thing I see before the light blinks out in my eyes is – the waitress, with a block of blood-spattered cheese in her hand and my wife, open-mouthed, looking at the waitress and saying;
“Grate job….”
And then black.
Please excuse formatting errors!