At the End of the Day

I sing to myself quietly as I putter in the kitchen, preparing dinner. As I place a pan in the sink, a ray of sun shines in the window, hitting my face and making me blink. Squinting, I lean over the sink and peer out of the window at just the right angle to see the driveway. It’s still empty, as it has been since 6:00 this morning.

Sighing, I glance at the glowing numbers on the oven clock. 5:30. My husband should have been home thirty minutes ago, but I’m not surprised that he is late. As a road service technician, he often gets calls late in the day and has to attend them before heading home. I learned a long time ago not to assume that his schedule would follow my expectations.

As I pull the vegetables off the stove and strain them, I hear the familiar beeping of my husband’s truck as he backs down the driveway. Smiling, I set the dining room table and wait for him to walk in the door, which he does a minute later.

“You’re late,” I tease as I pull him into a hug. Before he pulls away, I push my fingers through his jungle of hair and breathe in his scent – a musk of motor oil and sweat. I’ve never found that combination of smells particularly alluring, but it’s become familiar and comforting over the years. After fifteen years together, it’s easy to reminisce. When the days are hard, and I struggle to find meaning in the day-to-day, I take solace in the scent that reminds me that this man loves me enough to spend his days doing back-breaking work to support me, support us.

But today, there is a new scent in the mix, something familiar, but I can’t place it. He pushes me away before I can put my finger on it.

“I’m gross,” he explains. “Let me shower.”

“But dinner’s ready,” I whine. “Can’t you wait until after we eat? Just wash your hands.”

“Look at me, Mary!” His voice is so loud it makes me take a step back. He seems to realize how loud he’s gotten and lowers his voice a bit. “Look, I just want to be clean. It’s been a long day, and I’ve been on my feet since 7 this morning. The customers were rude, the boss was obnoxious, and nothing went right. I just want a hot shower. Please, Angel.”

His use of his pet name for me melts me, and I give in. “Of course, honey. Go shower, and we’ll eat when you’re done.”

My poor husband can get so tired and grouchy after a hard day at work. It usually doesn’t take much more than a hug and a kiss from me, a shower, and a good meal, but I decide it couldn’t hurt to go above and beyond. I wait a few minutes to give him time to undress and start the shower. Then, I try to sneak into the bathroom to grab his towel. A few minutes in the dryer will make it soft and warm, the perfect little treat to make him smile.

But the sight that greets me when I open the bathroom door makes me scream. My husband, standing in the middle of the bathroom in all his naked glory, is covered in vibrant, glistening, fresh blood.

“Oh my god!” I scream. “What happened?”

He looks at me in muted surprise and then looks down at himself. I realize that most of the blood seems to be centered around a spot on his abdomen.

“Angel?” he says in a faraway voice. “I think I’ve been shot.”

Without another word, he drops to the floor.