Her sobs were drowned with the sounds of the running shower. As the water gushed down her light brown hair, Clarissa vigorously scrubbed her body. As her soapy hands rubbed the back of her neck, Clarissa took a sniff of her armpits. She wished to rid herself of this scent, this scent she had carried home for 10 years. This was the same scent she had climbed in bed with for so long, the same scent that John said he adored. Her dresser lay clear of perfumes. John said that he liked her the way she was, simple and natural.
"I am sick of it! I am sick of your job! I am sick of your patients! I am sick of it. I am sick of you coming home at odd hours, with that... that odd hospital stench! Why don't you just live there? Why don't you just... just marry your patients dammnit?! For Christ's sake!"
"John... John, honey--"
"Just look at yourself. You've ruined your life, and honestly, you've dragged me along. I don't want to go on. I am tired of all this Clarissa, very tired"
The words rang in her ears again and again. She had been very certain that John would come back. They had never fought, not once. John had always been an angel, patient with everything. Confused as Clarissa was with the outburst, she believed that they could get past it. She called. She drove. She searched for him for hours over long miles. Then she finally heard from him. He sent her a note, attached with the divorce papers: I would like to annul our marriage. Please cooperate.
Clarissa was not particularly fond of water. Her grandmother had suffered burns from hot water she was not able to survive. Her uncle, who had been a Rear Admiral in the Australian naval force, had drowned himself. There were stories that he had exhibited suicidal behavior before, that he was depressed and traumatized by his son's death. Her brother had once fallen into a well upon their visit to their grandmother's Moroccan village. She had slipped into the neighbour's pool once and nearly drowned. Water, clearly, was not her family's best friend. John liked to have sex in the shower. She had never enjoyed it. John had surprised her with a vacation to Rio De Janeiro for their 5th anniversary. He had paid an extra $70 AUD to get a room facing the Copacabana beach. They had not visited the 5 km beach even once. Clarissa just did not like water and John had never really understood it.
As Clarissa grabbed a towel to dry herself, the doorbell rang. "Honey! Will you get it? I am in the sho... o... wer," her voice trailed off as she realized she was all alone in the house. Quickly draping herself in a bathrobe, she ran down the stairs to answer the door. Her hand reached for the door knob when she had the sudden urge to peek through the keyhole. Three different angles gave away nothing about her visitor. Sighing, she opened the door. No one, except a package at her doorstep. She climbed down her front stairs to have a good look around. Not a soul. She stared at the parcel packaged in brown paper, inspecting all corners. Upon shaking it, she could hear a liquid sloshing inside. Well, if it was acid, it couldn't make her hands uglier than they already were. Carrying it inside, precariously balanced on one arm, she began to unwrap it with the other hand. Out popped a bottle of Chardonnay, and a packet of brie. John? Clarissa rushed outside, but the street was dark and lonely. John's MBA networking sessions had spurred an obsession in him for wine and cheese tasting events, and he in turn had made a decent connoisseur out of her. She had spent weeks before John's birthday, memorizing the names of 42 different kinds of cheeses and the wines they paired with. John thought it was absolutely crazy but had loved his birthday present nonetheless--his walking wine & cheese encyclopedia wife. Chardonnay was best companioned with creamy cheeses such as brie. Some things one just does not forget. John had said he would never forget.
She searched the packet again for a note of some sort but there was nothing else in the packet. After three attempts to reach him on his cellphone, Clarissa gave up and poured herself a glass of the Chardonnay. "Drink my sorrows away," she proclaimed loudly. Switching the TV on, she searched a drawer of old DVDs, and finally decided upon 'The Talented Mr. Ripley.' The tag line read: How far would you go to become someone else? Oddly enough, she did not remember watching the movie or purchasing it. John detested the television, except when it came to cricket matches. Other than a secret crush on the South African player, Jonty Rhodes, in her teenage years, cricket had never really interested Clarissa.
Propping the DVD in the player, Clarissa grabbed her wine glass and the packet of cheese. As she carefully began to cut cubes of the brie, the room flooded with the sweet laughter of a child. Looking up, Clarissa saw a cute little boy holding up a pink cotton candy. Smiling, but then noticing that this was not the usual movie video, Clarissa reached for the remote to forward it. Why do they tape their kids' birthdays--and then she saw a beautiful red haired woman run after the boy and a man's voice she distinctly recognized. John? The boy came running back, demanding more cotton candy from his father, the man who was the one videotaping, the man whose voice she had just heard, the man who was... John? It couldn't be. The video was interrupted. Now the man and the child came in view. The man had his back to the camera; he was tickling the boy's stomach while a black Dachshund gleefully played around their legs. Soft giggles of a woman could be heard in the background. She must have the camera now.
"Well both of you, let's get some food in those hungry stomachs now. Derek, we've got jelly!" the woman said. While the man and the boy continued to play on, the woman spoke again, "Honey, come on! You become a kid with him." The man rolled off the boy and lay on the grass, breathing heavily, his face now in full view.
"John."
As Clarissa muttered his name, the wine glass in her hand cracked. A streak of red adulterated the sparkling wine, and the glass shattered. Glimmering brilliance of wine, blood, glass spilled on the varnished floor. Huddled, Clarissa rested her cheek against the cold, red leather of her couch. She stared at the mess on the floor and as her tears dissolved in the rosy composite, she moved her fingers to etch his name in the pool. J-O-H-N.
"I am sick of it! I am sick of your job! I am sick of your patients! I am sick of it. I am sick of you coming home at odd hours, with that... that odd hospital stench! Why don't you just live there? Why don't you just... just marry your patients dammnit?! For Christ's sake!"
"John... John, honey--"
"Just look at yourself. You've ruined your life, and honestly, you've dragged me along. I don't want to go on. I am tired of all this Clarissa, very tired"
The words rang in her ears again and again. She had been very certain that John would come back. They had never fought, not once. John had always been an angel, patient with everything. Confused as Clarissa was with the outburst, she believed that they could get past it. She called. She drove. She searched for him for hours over long miles. Then she finally heard from him. He sent her a note, attached with the divorce papers: I would like to annul our marriage. Please cooperate.
Clarissa was not particularly fond of water. Her grandmother had suffered burns from hot water she was not able to survive. Her uncle, who had been a Rear Admiral in the Australian naval force, had drowned himself. There were stories that he had exhibited suicidal behavior before, that he was depressed and traumatized by his son's death. Her brother had once fallen into a well upon their visit to their grandmother's Moroccan village. She had slipped into the neighbour's pool once and nearly drowned. Water, clearly, was not her family's best friend. John liked to have sex in the shower. She had never enjoyed it. John had surprised her with a vacation to Rio De Janeiro for their 5th anniversary. He had paid an extra $70 AUD to get a room facing the Copacabana beach. They had not visited the 5 km beach even once. Clarissa just did not like water and John had never really understood it.
As Clarissa grabbed a towel to dry herself, the doorbell rang. "Honey! Will you get it? I am in the sho... o... wer," her voice trailed off as she realized she was all alone in the house. Quickly draping herself in a bathrobe, she ran down the stairs to answer the door. Her hand reached for the door knob when she had the sudden urge to peek through the keyhole. Three different angles gave away nothing about her visitor. Sighing, she opened the door. No one, except a package at her doorstep. She climbed down her front stairs to have a good look around. Not a soul. She stared at the parcel packaged in brown paper, inspecting all corners. Upon shaking it, she could hear a liquid sloshing inside. Well, if it was acid, it couldn't make her hands uglier than they already were. Carrying it inside, precariously balanced on one arm, she began to unwrap it with the other hand. Out popped a bottle of Chardonnay, and a packet of brie. John? Clarissa rushed outside, but the street was dark and lonely. John's MBA networking sessions had spurred an obsession in him for wine and cheese tasting events, and he in turn had made a decent connoisseur out of her. She had spent weeks before John's birthday, memorizing the names of 42 different kinds of cheeses and the wines they paired with. John thought it was absolutely crazy but had loved his birthday present nonetheless--his walking wine & cheese encyclopedia wife. Chardonnay was best companioned with creamy cheeses such as brie. Some things one just does not forget. John had said he would never forget.
She searched the packet again for a note of some sort but there was nothing else in the packet. After three attempts to reach him on his cellphone, Clarissa gave up and poured herself a glass of the Chardonnay. "Drink my sorrows away," she proclaimed loudly. Switching the TV on, she searched a drawer of old DVDs, and finally decided upon 'The Talented Mr. Ripley.' The tag line read: How far would you go to become someone else? Oddly enough, she did not remember watching the movie or purchasing it. John detested the television, except when it came to cricket matches. Other than a secret crush on the South African player, Jonty Rhodes, in her teenage years, cricket had never really interested Clarissa.
Propping the DVD in the player, Clarissa grabbed her wine glass and the packet of cheese. As she carefully began to cut cubes of the brie, the room flooded with the sweet laughter of a child. Looking up, Clarissa saw a cute little boy holding up a pink cotton candy. Smiling, but then noticing that this was not the usual movie video, Clarissa reached for the remote to forward it. Why do they tape their kids' birthdays--and then she saw a beautiful red haired woman run after the boy and a man's voice she distinctly recognized. John? The boy came running back, demanding more cotton candy from his father, the man who was the one videotaping, the man whose voice she had just heard, the man who was... John? It couldn't be. The video was interrupted. Now the man and the child came in view. The man had his back to the camera; he was tickling the boy's stomach while a black Dachshund gleefully played around their legs. Soft giggles of a woman could be heard in the background. She must have the camera now.
"Well both of you, let's get some food in those hungry stomachs now. Derek, we've got jelly!" the woman said. While the man and the boy continued to play on, the woman spoke again, "Honey, come on! You become a kid with him." The man rolled off the boy and lay on the grass, breathing heavily, his face now in full view.
"John."
As Clarissa muttered his name, the wine glass in her hand cracked. A streak of red adulterated the sparkling wine, and the glass shattered. Glimmering brilliance of wine, blood, glass spilled on the varnished floor. Huddled, Clarissa rested her cheek against the cold, red leather of her couch. She stared at the mess on the floor and as her tears dissolved in the rosy composite, she moved her fingers to etch his name in the pool. J-O-H-N.
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