Tonight was going to be her last. The resident was certain.

It was difficult to believe a doctor without two years’ experience in the field of, well, anything as important as the impending death of a spouse.

Not just a spouse.

Catherine is still my spouse.

That is until I can invoke the “til death do us part” clause in our marriage.

That is, if she lives up to even that vow.

It all began when I met Catherine bowling on a Friday night twelve years ago. She was with a few of her friends. I was with a few of my friends. The lanes were crowded and she suggested the six of us should share a lane. That offer was made to all of us. By the look she gave me, I understood, it was directed solely for me.

Two days later, we were dating. A few issues with a few exes and we became an off again, on again couple. I wanted us to be exclusive. Catherine eventually saw the light.

By Christmas, we were engaged. During the last week of May, we signed the marriage license and were officially married in a small chapel on the outskirts of Las Vegas by an Elvis impersonator moonlighting as an ordained minister.

Catherine told me to get the car from the far end of the parking lot. “The heat will ruin my hair if I have to walk that distance.” When she did exit, her hair was a mess and Father Elvis wore the same plum shade lipstick as my bride.

It was a long ride home back to LA.

Of course she had an explanation. That was Catherine’s modus operandi for all of her brushes with impropriety. “It was just in good fun” or “Are you jealous? You have nothing to worry about” or “Lighten up. It didn’t mean anything.” She played me and my fears of losing her often. I had my suspicions, but I never could catch her with anything incriminating.

But, that never stopped me from trying.

She gave birth to two beautiful daughters, Emily and Elizabeth. With my new position, we purchased our first home in the valley. Not much of a lot and the traffic was murder, but Catherine’s smile and the girl’s hugs made every day worth it.

Fast forward ten years and then it happened. I found Catherine with one of my co-workers in bed. While we began arguing, the girls saw the man walk out of our bedroom, naked, to his convertible. I was devastated as a husband, but remained stronger than ever as a father. I took the girls to my sister’s home to live while Catherine and I had it out.

Catherine wanted a divorce and she wanted the girls. Most of all, she wanted me to leave.

That’s how it was for the next year. I resisted all her efforts to expedite the divorce court proceedings. I even cashed my IRA to pay a lawyer to find a sympathetic judge to prevent an annulment or a quickie Vegas divorce.

I fought her and for the girls. They were my life and as bad as it seems, I married for life, with associated vows, never to divorce.

Then, the proverbial straw broke the camel’s back. My former co-worker, Derrick, suddenly died of a particularly virulent strain of HIV/AIDS. He went from healthy to dead in a blink of an eye. This news frightened me.

It scared Catherine to death.

I came home early and found the lab report in the house and Catherine unconscious on the couch. She slit her wrists when she read her “Derrick” similar prognosis.

The doctor wrote the term, six months, at best, as the last sentence.

Catherine awoke in isolation at County General. I told her I would take care of her until the end, not out of love, only because we were still married.

She smiled, not a genuine smile, not a smile based on love or warmth or trust, but a smile of someone who will try to take you with them when they go.

I call it the “Catherine Beam”, practiced to be perfect, nearly flawless on all novices, poisonous as a viper. She milked my seriousness to our marriage. Then Catherine used our daughters against me in an attempt to wrangle affection and understanding in their presence.

I had to remain professional during these events. I gave her my best acting performance to match her facade during the first months. However, during her last months, her last weeks, Catherine wanted more. She wanted forgiveness.

It would have made it easier on the girls. It would have made local appearances more palatable for all of us.

It just would not have been true.

I was by Catherine’s side, with a signed DNR, holding the girl’s hands as we watched their

mommy, my wife, and another’s whore slip away. I could not hear Catherine’s last words and I did not permit the girls to approach to hear them either. She lost all her beauty and her youth. Catherine’s hands trembled as her heart beat slower and slower. The machines would flat-line soon and all I could do was watch her die in pain.

I did nothing for her today as she did nothing for me all of those days. She ruined the lives of the girls and our family. Catherine squandered all of the time we had together and the memories we should have made together.

I take no joy in the suffering of my wife. No joy in receiving her pain. No joy in the lip service and pretense to the events leading to today.

Catherine Lynn Baxter, mother of two, wife of Charles Edward Baxter, died this morning at 9:17 am, in hospice care, from cardiac arrest, brought on by complications from HIV/AIDS.

She leaves no other family. She was thirty-three years old.

She had everything a woman could want and nothing she so desperately needed.

Dear Sexy Word People:

Here's a quick feature for some requests from the Prose. profile inbox. Speaking of which, if any pieces, or writers in general, do it for you, and you want them featured, write in with the Prose. link attached, and we'll feature it if we can.

The Challenge of the Month XLII video is on the way next.

Here's the link for the quickie today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_GE3rW7sPE

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

You have made your hatred of me public in social media, and on playlists you send me.

You send me another.

You want me to hear you made a playlist about me-- after all, it carries my namesake. My stalking to find it is practically irrelevant. Perhaps I care how you are. What does it matter my intention? It is for me, like a horrid gift of a dead bird on my porch. All is void else wise.

Late at night, over two years post mortem our relationship I settle down to hear what is your peace with a cooler and my dog's steady breath nearby, It is late-- 1:10 am and I feel anxiety pool in my stomach as I see the apology for a title.

I understand your response to my existence. I'm a shit human. I have made peace with that, so I kick my toes up and down respectively presuming nothing more shall wound me.

I am wrong. You blame me with a severity that shames a murderer.

I swallow the liquor by my bedside, and taste the lime on the back of my tongue. I feel something more malevolent on the tip. Something festering, that is angry and hurt. It burns in my soul. I do not take it out on you.

I shake it off, genuinely like a dog of its water. It makes my neck ache and my lips turn upside in a grimace. I do not care. My ache is beyond me. It is not justifiable.

I will not share what you have said, but you cannot keep blaming me for everything.

It’s been years since I have loved you. Since you loved me. Since you knew me.

I returned briefly, and even at my worse I did not deserve this because I loved you, as best I could. I understand that we have traumatized each other., but not enough for you to talk about me still. Not enough to like make a playlist that is burgeoned by rage and hurt.

You do not know me if you think I am so mean. So reckless.

You do not love me. You do not understand my love. Haven’t tried.