A Pefect Match

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When she wasn't around, Alfred Grimmer liked to fantasize about the call. Ideally, he'd have passed a fretful hour or two wondering where she was, his nascent concern somewhat quelled by the flickering television.
He'd be scraping the last vestiges of supper(a lasagne or a cottage pie perhaps) into the dustbin, when the phone would ring.
"We're terribly sorry to inform you, Mr Grimmer, that your wife has been killed."
No, wait. He'd be sipping his nightly glass of Merlot, and then the phone. That seemed a better ambience for receiving the news.
So he'd politely thank them for informing him, and with a perfectly rehearsed quiver in his voice, the plan would unfurl. Alfred had been born to play the grieving husband. Where most could only dream of a life as devoid of sorrow as his, Alfred had convinced himself that he required but one, truly tragic moment to be set free. He couldn't be certain of the precise instant he'd decided that moment should revolve around the demise of his wife, as he loved her no less then when he'd first married her, yet somehow it seemed appropriate. It never occurred to him that loving someone and wanting them dead could be seen as a rather obvious conflict of interests; he'd even pronounced in his vows that she was his equal in every way, that she even thought like he did. That was precisely why it had to be her. No one would react in the way he hoped if it wasn't.
Alfred had lived her funeral a hundred times, who would be there, what he'd say to each one. He'd chosen flowers, endlessly debated the right time of day, though he was as yet undecided on the catering for the wake. His eulogy would be moving, tender; it would have just the right touch of humour, yet also conjure the image of a desolate, broken man. Friends would visit for weeks, just to make sure he was okay. Family would suddenly forget the fallouts of the past, and the pity of his enemies would extend for years to come. After seven months and four days (a date far less random then it might appear), he would reappear like a butterfly from a hurricane, stronger then ever before. The world would be at his feet, he would be irresistible. His was a power that could never run dry.....
The phone rang, and the future became as lucid as the black-and-white check of the kitchen floor. Could this be it? A thought that had been screaming at him for the past half-hour finally broke through. Why couldn't he move his legs? Or his arms for that matter? And more importantly, why could he not lift his cheek from the kitchen floor, a floor that now seemed far grayer then he'd thought a moment ago? A shattered glass bled wine a foot or so away from him, and still the phone rang. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt cold and dead. A pair of black high-heels moved across his vision, and the incessant ring was at last interrupted by a voice.
"Why yes Jillian, Alfie's feeling a little under the weather, so it will just be me joining you for drinks tonight."
She really did think like him.

6 Responses to “A Pefect Match”

  1. Anonymous Luke Sometimes 

    Perfect ... nope, you haven't lost your touch. Great to have you back and glad the eggzamens are over. This reminds me of a famous horror short story (someone here will know which one I'm talking about but the author and title of the thing eludes me ... dammit) ... the one where the husband is moaning about his wife, while she sits knitting in the corner of the room and then she gets up at the end and all you read is his horrorified words ... something like, "Whatever are you doing with those knitting needles, dear?" Damn I wish I could remember the title of that story and the author, I'm going to kick myself when I remember it.

  2. Anonymous kyknoord 

    Creepy, dude. Maybe she thinks like him, but clearly she thinks faster.

  3. Anonymous chitty 

    Alfred had convinced himself that he required but one, truly tragic moment to be set free.
    How ironic that the moment should revolve around his own demise?
    Nicely done!

  4. Anonymous anne 

    In a very good way, of course.

  5. Anonymous Fence 

    I see Blogger managed to eat my comment yesterday. Ah well. Let's see, what did I say? Nothing much other than I like.

    Creepy, as Anne said, in a good way.

  6. Anonymous LiVEwiRe 

    Very late, yes, I know.... but, damn. That was incredible! They were quite the pair, weren't they? I especially enjoyed how he didn't even realize he was down because he was so focused on his version of the plan. Now... what is the significance of the seven months and four days??? I need to know. Really, I mean it.

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