Happy Anniversary

He sits and he looks at her across the dinner table. The table that has weathered hundreds if not thousands of breakfasts, dinners, stormy arguments, and romantic parties. That face of hers, with its golden tan and deep creases, is so weathered, yet he loves every crease and crack.

He has seen her grow and age, has loved her since they were sweethearts at high school. Her eyes are as blue and as bright as the day he met her, when they were both sweet sixteen.

She is still beautiful to him. He raises his glass of champagne, and she does the same, smiling at him radiantly.

“How lucky we are,” she beams at him. “We found each other and we both knew what we wanted. We wanted to be together forever. We wanted family and fun. And boy, have we been lucky.”

He smiles at her in agreement, and pretends to sip from his glass.

Her elderly husband, still a fine figure of a man, despite his advanced years, sits and talks with her. They continue to talk, well into the night, reminiscing about each big and small event in their shared lives, the good things such as marriage, children, new jobs, travel – and the not-so-good things – redundancies, financial stress, miscarriages, burst pipes, kitchen disasters, leaking toilets and cracked roof tiles.

He agrees with every little good and bad thing, and they smile and laugh and chuckle together lots. They hold hands over the table. Then he lapses into thoughtful silence as she swigs more champagne.

He thinks about fifty years of marriage. He thinks of the sacrifices made by both of them. But mostly, of the sacrifices made by himself. Of the fun he probably missed out on by getting married so young. Of the advances he has turned down over the years, beautiful, alluring women too. Of the lad’s parties away that he secretly had wanted to attend over the years. But of course, he had put his wife and his family first, wanting to be the doting husband. She used to get so unsettled when he was away for too long.

His lovely wife begins to cough, her pale blue eyes turning red and watery. She clutches at her throat, unable to speak, reaching to her beloved husband for help, pleading with her eyes, not understanding what is happening.

He smiles in reassurance. “It’s okay, Peggy,” he murmurs. He continues to hold her hand tightly and stroke it, as she begins to convulse and flail. He still watches her tenderly, with love in his eyes.

*

He stands over her after she has slumped forwards onto the table, her face partly fallen in her unfinished dinner. He once again strokes her hand.

“It’s been an interesting fifty years, kid.”

His expression darkens slightly. He leans down and smooths her hair away from her slack face. “But I’ve given you all I can. I’ve given you fifty years of me. And now I want to go be single again.

I want to eat crap, and pizza, and ready meals. I want to slob about, smoke without being told off, discover what sex feels like with someone else. I want excitement again, Peggy. You can understand that, can’t you, my love?”

He picks up the spilt champagne glass that was knocked over on the table, from which the tainted golden liquid oozes onto the immaculately laid wooden table. He tips the rest of the poisoned champagne down the sink, washes up the glasses in the sink.

Finally, he blows out the lit candle that had helped create such a wonderful, final, romantic atmosphere that evening.

He tells her, “I love you. I always have loved you. But now I can go be me.”