Sunday afternoon. I'm hiding in the bathroom. I perch on the toilet, holding my head in my shaking hands.
I had meant no harm. Truly.
Glancing at the polished nickel wall sconces, the pewter bowl with the artfully scattered seashells and the white, claw-footed tub, I swallow back another wave of nausea. As I splash cold water on my face, I hear my husband pacing behind the locked door.
"Honey? What happened to our house?" my dearest asks. He has never liked change, and with each word, his voice grows more and more taut, like an over-tuned viola.
I shudder. What happened? Just a few words, a stupid Twitter update. I wish I lived in a Pottery Barn Catalog. A mindless joke, meant to be mildly amusing, perhaps worthy of a re-tweet at most.
I didn't think it would go viral. I didn't think I would wake up to an artfully staged, yet completely soulless tomb of a home.
I breathe deeply, in an attempt to slow my racing heart. "Did you check the baskets by the Bedford Collection Craft Organizer?"
He sighs. "Yes, Claire. All that's in there are Architectural Digests and stacks of logs. Where are my beer steins? And why is our kitchen table...wicker?" He says the word as if it was pustule or malignancy.
I step out of the bathroom, glance at the oversize spoon and fork dominating our kitchen wall, and force a smile to creep across my face. "It's really a crazy story..." His face is granite. I place my hand on his forearm, and continue. "Don't you like it? I mean look, honey, Found Belgian Train Signs!"
He jerks my hand away. "I liked us. I liked mess." He glances at the hurricane glass full of pistachios, and grimaces." I need a drink."
I laugh, waving my hands, "Well, look!" I shriek, "There's lots of champagne on ice!" I read the hand-printed sign hanging on parchment paper: "Tonight's Cocktail! Champagne with your choice of wild hibiscus, framboise, or assis." The hysteria explodes from within, spurting like a broken sprinkler. I crumple to the floor, weeping softly.
"I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I'm so, so sorry."
My husband sits down next to me. I can smell the framboise and artisan cheeses on his breath. "We'll talk about this later. But remember, everything can be undone." He kisses me gently on the temple, and walks away.
I rest my head on the Solid Sisal Rug and say a silent "thank-you."
After all, my original Twitter Update? Husband for sale. First come, first serve.
This week's entry for the red writing hood link-up was to write a piece of flash fiction (200-2000 words) using the topic "Trapped." or "I truly enjoyed spending time with them. I just had to decide which of them I would kill."
As always, your comments and feedback are most appreciated!