dankrubis

Stephanie stares into the fridge, spying the half eaten condiments, the expired milk, and four Miller Lites, seven months old. She grabs a bottle of ketchup, letting it fall into the trash can next to her. Her eyes don't move from the bottle laying in the garbage. She launches the mayonnaise across the room, hitting a wall, then falling to the ground.

It doesn't break. She can't even do that right.

She gets a beer then slumps to the floor. There's not a single chair left in the house. Cracking it open, she takes a sip, wincing at the rancid liquid. At least it's still carbonated. Then she takes a gulp.

Ian makes the usual right turn onto Fairview, one he's made a thousand times in the same car, except this time it's different. He notices his heartbeat as he spots her red Taurus in the driveway.

The car slows to a stop in the middle of the street. Ian lights a cigarette, gazing at the house, her car, the unknown and it's fear. He pulls his car into the driveway, next to hers.

Stephanie listens to the brakes squeal to a slow halt, then the cutting of the engine. She wants to pick herself of the floor, to right herself, to make him think she couldn't care less, but she doesn't. She takes a long pull off the beer.

Ian takes short steps entering the house. Space and white walls are the only defining characteristics of the skeleton. Everything looks just like it did the day they bought it, except now Ian wants to cry.

He finds her in the kitchen. He stares at her. She doesn't.

"You okay?"

She lets moments pass, like she didn't hear a thing. As the relationship grew more and more tired, these moments of silence grew longer and longer. He knew it was just to piss him off, but he didn't care anymore.

"I'm fine."

As the thin smoke lingers in the air, finding her nose, she notices a bottle of mustard, unopened at the very back of the fridge on the bottom shelf. Stephanie hates mustard. It's been there since they moved in. She remembers the argument at the house warming party. Somebody forgot to buy mustard for the hot dogs. For some reason, unknown to her, this makes her smile. "You got another smoke?"

He fumbles for the pack in his deep pockets. "I thought you quit."

Again, he enjoys her delayed reaction as he places the new cig into his mouth, lighting it with the fire of his own.

"I did," she says, snatching the tobacco from his outstretched hand. "Where's Anthony and Tabitha?"

He takes a drag, his own minute form of procrastination. As he answers, warm smoke billows forth. "They're with Mom." This time there is no delay.

"They're with your mother? She can barely see!"

"I think it's safe to say she's got a good deal more experience at raising kids than we do." He sucks on the tobacco again. "They'll be fine." Ian, feeling a fight coming on, decides one beer won't hurt.

"Get me one too?"

He cracks open the one already in his hand, then gives it to her.

"Here ya go, baby."

"No. Not baby anymore." She takes it while finishing her first. Ian grabs another for himself.

He opens it up while glancing around the kitchen. He tries to remember what used to be there. There was the apple cookie jar sitting on the island. The toaster oven and microwave sat on the counter to the right of the oven. A reprint of Monet's "Something or Other" hung a bit too low over the kitchen table. He doesn't remember any of this. He does spot a small dent on the far wall, a bottle of mayonnaise below it.

"Mayo miss the trash?"

Again, she doesn't answer. This time he knows she never will. "Sooo..." he drinks his beer, his face looking like he just took a bite of shit. "Fuck, that's old."

"Yeah, it is." She says, taking more of her own in.

He searches the contents of the fridge. More so, he searches for something to say. "What about the kids, anyways?"

Stephanie looks at her cigarette. The ash is too long. She taps it, dropping soot to the linoleum, then takes another drag.

"What about the kids?"

"Well, are we gonna let the lawyers handle it? Or can we come to a decision on our own?"

Stephanie's mother never beat her, really. But she did love mind games. Some days were spent locked in the bathroom, with no clothes or towels. As if some sort of cruel joke, candy was stuffed underneath the door every few hours.

"Take them."

"What?"

"I don't want anything to do with them right now." She ashes on the floor once again, then takes a drag. "They're yours."

Ian drinks his drink and smokes his smoke. "You want our children to grow up without a mother figure?"

"The rest of your stuff is in the bedroom," she groans while getting to her feet. She walks out of the kitchen, towards the front door.

"Finish cleaning out the fridge."