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Doug & Sharyl
by Brandilyn Haynes Doug When they’d first been married, Sharyl wore her hair long and dark, but as she began to grey she cut it short and bleached it, insisting she felt youthful. Every morning she curled the strands out and away from her face until they sat atop her head in a perfect halo, a circle of ringlets that she fluffed before draping her green sweater over her shoulders and going about her business. The sweater was a gift from her mother, knit for her fifty-eighth birthday, and she often wore it with the sleeves knotted at her slender, pale neck. Doug was sixty when he retired, eager to spend his days golfing with a cigar clenched between his teeth. He often felt out of place in the beautiful home Sharyl had hired a decorator to furnish, but on the golf course, he was comfortable and welcome. It was easy to put his cell phone on mute, to pretend he didn’t see the missed calls lining up on his screen, to listen to the golf cart tires hum over the manicured grass instead of the shrill pitch of Sharyl’s voice. He hadn’t always avoided his wife. Age had thinned his patience for her, though, and now he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what he disliked most about her. This morning, Doug had left the back door open as he loaded his golfing equipment into his Volvo, allowing him a straight view into the dining room where Sharyl sat with her back to him, folding napkins for their next dinner party. Her sweater was draped over her shoulders as usual, and she sat very straight and still while she worked. As he carefully organized the clubs in his bag, he lifted a driver up, briefly holding it in his hands and giving it a practice swing through the air. From where he stood, Sharyl’s head looked very small and he squinted as he lined up a perfect shot, mentally hearing the satisfying thwack! as his club made contact, imagining how it felt to see a ball go flying. He smiled then turned, sliding the club into its place in his bag before closing the door and driving away. Sharyl Sharyl’s shoulders slumped as Doug shut the door. She waited until the garage door shut before letting herself cry, burying her face in the sleeve of her sweater. She inhaled deeply, wishing it smelled of lavender like when she’d opened it on her birthday, a gift from her mother just six weeks before she passed away. Doug had never liked his mother-in-law, had even acted reluctant to fly to the funeral last month, and she often felt exhausted trying to hold back tears around him. She had collected herself by the time she heard the garage door open that evening, and she kissed Doug on the cheek before encouraging him to shower before dinner. Sharyl prided herself on being an excellent cook and she hummed softly to herself as she bustled around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner. As she heard Doug’s footsteps on the stairs, she pulled the roast chicken out of the oven, cutting the twine around the legs before laying it on a flat serving dish. Sharyl glanced briefly from her position at the kitchen island into the dining room where Doug sat at his end of the table, his back to her. The skin on the back of his neck was dark brown, evidence of hours spent bent over a golf club, and he fiddled with his place setting as he waited for his meal to be served. The carving knife suddenly felt heavy in her hand and she tilted her head, squinting as she contemplated the pull of metal through meat, the give of flesh as it separated beneath her hand. She smiled quickly, the set the knife back on the marble counter and brought dinner out to her waiting husband. |
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