The Perfect Marriage

We are the perfect domestic partners. I put on my makeup every morning as he knots his tie behind me, and then he kisses me goodbye. We have no reason at all to be monitored by the Authorities.

With a careful, practiced hand, I draw the tiny black brush across my eyelid right above my lashes. Vincent hums as he knots his tie in the mirror, a Sunday-reserved song he has a soft spot for: “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” He’s wearing his green Tuesday tie, too, just like he should. I’m finishing the dainty wing on my left eye when he bends down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“It’s a good thing I haven’t put on my rouge yet, dear,” I say with a faint smile, and he gives me a familiar chuckle.

“I’ll see you after work, darling,” he says. In the mirror’s reflection, I watch as he grabs his brown leather briefcase from off our dresser and leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind himself with a solid click. The silence after that is a pressing and present thing.

I don’t know exactly what he does when he goes to work, and I’m encouraged not to ask. I turn around on my plush vanity seat and look around at the clean and pristine place; the bed is made and the embroidered pillows are set up in an elegant way, just as the Domestic Handbook recommends. The yellow curtains are pulled aside to let in the natural light, and they’re perfectly still like they’re made of stone instead of fabric. There is a single framed portrait of Vincent and I on top of the dresser, beside where his briefcase goes every night. One leg crossed over the other, I let myself stare at it for a moment.

The colors are faded like I’m looking at the photo through brown-tinted sunglasses. In it, he’s in a tux and I’m in a white dress with puffy sleeves, and we’re standing next to a sensibly-sized white cake with a miniature replica of us sitting on top for decoration. He has the same curly, short-cropped hair as he takes my arm in his, and I wear my makeup the same way today. The Domestic Handbook recommends consistency for a happy marriage. It’s something we do quite well at.

Before I get off my schedule, I turn around on the stool again and apply a soft pink blush to my cheeks, then swipe a tube of red lipstick across my mouth. I don’t own a varying color of any single product. That’s how most things are in our house.

On Tuesdays I cook beef stroganoff for dinner. It’s a dish that we like to have bread rolls with, so as soon as I’m done sweeping the kitchen tile and vacuuming the living room carpet, I get to work preparing the dough. The windows above the sink are open and there’s a vase of fresh flowers inside—knockout roses. They’re deep red-pink with petals that curl at the tips, sharper-looking than regular rose flowers. Beds of them are planted out in front of the house, too. Outside, a mailman in a blue cap makes his rounds down the street, planting an identical rolled paper in each mailbox. All the houses look the same. Except for the colors, of course; each domestic couple picks their own color scheme for their house when they apply for a marriage license. Some variance is good, if in moderation.

While I roll out the dough in the kitchen, I look over into the sun-filled living room. The television set is off and there’s an LP on our record player, the tiny needle poised on its shiny lip, and I wish there was something to fill the quiet. The clacking of my heels on the kitchen tile doesn’t count.

Once the dough is set to rise, and after I’ve already checked the clock on the wall about a hundred times, I start on the laundry. The humming machine provides some background noise to soften the edges of this vast, empty space.

Then I have a lunch of tuna salad that I just pull out of the refrigerator and add mayonnaise to. I wish Vincent was here.

The Handbook says it’s not good to miss a spouse throughout the day too much. I should be thinking about my domestic duties instead. It’s not a socializing day, either. Those are Friday evenings and Saturday mornings. When I stick my head out the front door and peer both ways down the uniform streets, there are nothing but two-story houses of simple pastels and coordinating flower beds out front. The mailman is gone. There’s not so much as a child running around with a toy in someone’s front yard.

Vincent and I have been married for four years. Next year we’ll be allowed to have children, once we’ve filled out all the paperwork and we’ve gone through the screening processes. We’re encouraged to make friends with other couples in the same developmental stage as us.

When we’re at dinner parties on Friday nights, though, and I see women just a couple years older than me with chubby babies on their hips, something inside me freezes in fear. I’d love to ask them questions. That is not what the Domestic Handbook advises, however, because everything I need to know has already been laid out. It’s a foolproof plan.

Vincent gets off work at four and he arrives home every night at four-thirty. In the living room, I take my seat in the leather armchair—the one he normally sits in—and start working on my needlepoint. It’ll be a good exchange gift for a Friday night dinner party. I keep the windows parted, though, and keep sparing glances at the empty carport outside.

As soon as I hear the familiar engine of his car coming down the street, I drop my embroidery project and jump up from the chair.

I wait for him at the door each night. I smooth out the front of my dress when I hear his footsteps outside, and I love the way his face lights up every evening when he first sees me, like it’s a wonderful and unexpected surprise. He gives me a quick, chaste kiss before he closes the door behind himself. “So good to see you, honey.”

“I’ll start on dinner, dear,” I tell him, and turn to go back into the kitchen. What I really want to do is cup his face in my hands and kiss him again.

He reads the paper in his armchair while I work on dinner. It’s something I need to be focusing on. I glance up once I take the bread rolls out of the oven, though, and he’s not reading the paper anymore. He’s watching me. Something in my chest gives a tiny flutter.

“I wish there was something I could do to help,” he says quietly.

I do too, love.

“Just sit tight and dinner will be ready soon,” I reply, and the words feel strange coming out of my mouth, because I’ve never had to say something like that to him before.

Every day there are a thousand things on the tip of my tongue, and sometimes I manage to squeak out one.

“Is everything alright?” I ask. The way I say it, I hope that it’s ambiguous enough; I try to keep my voice sweet and innocent-sounding.

He thinks for a moment, then nods, opening the paper again. “Everything’s perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.”

He’s back to normal while we eat at the kitchen table, and we cover all the basic evening topics that the Domestic Handbook suggests: How was work? How was your day at home? Going too in-depth for any of these would be uncouth. When we’re done, though, he lingers in the kitchen for a moment while I take our plates to the sink.

For a moment, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a brief, comforting squeeze while I turn the faucet on. I keep my eyes on the dishes and pretend like nothing happened.

Afterwards, we settle down in the living room to finish our daily routine. I keep working on my needlepoint as he turns the television on, the same comedy-drama in black-and-white that everyone else is watching in their homes. They use the same actors and actresses for everything; I can’t tell shows apart and I don’t know if they’re supposed to be different characters. I know the overexaggerated dialogue in this one like the back of my hand—I know all of them that way.

As the domestic couples in the show bicker and then figure out ways to resolve their issues, I look up at Vincent every once in a while. My favorite things about him are the ones the Handbook doesn’t talk about. He can be loud when we’re with a group of friends but his voice gets quiet when we’re talking about things at home, and it’s difficult for him to sit still for too long at once, and there’s always a song playing in his head. I don’t know if I have any unique qualities like these, or if he’d notice them at all. Maybe it’s for the better that he doesn’t.

“Elaine?” he asks, severing the steady stream of familiar sound.

I pause, wondering if I’m hearing things. “Yes, dear?”

He hesitates again. My heart thuds in my chest because that must mean something is terribly wrong.

“Would you want to do something different tonight?” he asks, and I can feel my own lips part in shock.

We’re both frozen. He must be waiting on me to say something.

Hurriedly he amends, “I’m sorry. We don’t have to. Forget I said anything.”

I set down my embroidery hoop. “Actually, I’d love to do something different.”

We get up from our seats quickly and quietly. He sifts through LP’s in the vinyl cabinet while I slip back into the kitchen and open the fridge, pushing past glass jars and tupperware containers to find a dark bottle of wine. At first I pour a little less than half in two glasses, a moderate amount like the Handbook says. Then I tip a little more into each one.

I come back into the living room with a glass in each hand, and there’s a sweet, romantic song playing. I haven’t listened to one like this since the night we got married.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

Before we even start drinking, I set both glasses down on the coffee table and take him by the hand. It’s a good thing the curtains are drawn shut. He puts a careful hand on my waist and I have one on his shoulder, and it’s not a practiced waltz like we’re instructed to do for the occasional formal event. We’re just smiling and laughing and kind-of drifting all over the living room. He even gives me a twirl, and it leaves me breathless when he draws me in closely again. My cheeks hurt because I can’t remember the last time I’ve smiled this widely.

By the time the record is finished playing, we collapse on the couch in a fit of giggles like schoolchildren. He picks up his wineglass from off the coffee table, and it’s probably not as cold anymore, but it’s too late now.

“Here’s a toast,” he says. “To whatever possessed us to do that. I had a wonderful time.”

When we finish our wine and traipse off to get ready for bed, I take off my makeup in the vanity mirror while he showers. Normally we sleep with our backs to each other when we both crawl in bed. We’re facing each other tonight.

Every other evening, he says, “I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart.”

Tonight, he says, “We should do things like that more often. I’m not sure why we don’t.”

“Because it’s not in the Handbook.”

In the darkness, he shrugs. “I don’t care.”

As we’re lying there beside each other, it hits me that neither of us took our nighttime vitamins. That might be why it takes me a lot longer than usual to fall asleep.

He’s up before I am in the morning—there’s nothing out of the ordinary about that. He’s reading the rest of yesterday’s paper when I get up and start the coffee in the kitchen.

Sitting beside the coffeemaker is my pill organizer. Seven slots for seven days of the week, and each tiny cubicle is identical with the exact same contents each time. Three pills in each one, a powdery blue one, a gel orange one, and one that’s a hard, plastic-like capsule that’s pink and green. I pour a glass of water to take them, but I hold them in my palm at first, staring at the miniscule tablets.

“Do you ever wonder what these do?” I ask Vincent, turning around.

He raises his eyebrows like I’ve asked him something shocking. Then he shrugs. “I have no idea. I would just take them.”

I do, but instead of throwing them all back at once like normal, I take one at a time. Between each one, I pause for a moment to see if I feel any different. Not like I would, anyway.

After I prepare eggs and toast for breakfast and clean up, I start getting ready at the vanity in our bedroom. He comes in a few minutes later to pull on his black suit jacket and put on his tie. In the mirror’s reflection, there’s something subdued and hesitant about his movements. He looks a little pale in the face. He’s not humming “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask, brushing out the ends of my hair.

He shakes his head. He threads the tie around his upturned collar and knots it, but he pauses again after he folds the collar down. There’s a glazed and distant look in his eyes.

It’s not his Wednesday tie, either. That one is normally blue. He’s wearing a purple one today—that’s for Saturdays.

“Vincent?”

He lets go of the tie and he collapses, his knees giving way beneath him, and he crumples to the floor in a heap.

I don’t even move at first. I expect that he’ll start laughing and get up in a second. He’s been acting strangely lately, anyway. Nothing. I spring up from the vanity and turn around, and a horrified cry escapes from me when I realize that he’s not breathing at all.

Then I’m on my knees, shaking him by the shoulders, telling him to wake up but it’s all menial static in my own ears. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch. When I put two fingers beneath his jaw to feel for a pulse, there’s nothing but a faint, erratic beat. My own chest heaves with labored, sporadic breaths when I push myself up and stand there in shock.

I dash for the kitchen after that. Everyone has an emergency button on the wall beside their refrigerator, and I’ve never had to use it before, but I press the tiny red circle in the outlet and wait for something to happen. A woman’s voice crackles through the tiny mesh speaker below the button.

“Thank you for contacting the Emergency Services. What do you need assistance with?”

“My husband fell,” I manage to blurt out. “I don’t know what happened. He was getting ready for work and he just collapsed. What should I do?”

“Remain calm until the Emergency Response Team arrives,” the woman says, and I nod even if there’s no one here. “You took the correct course of action. Thank you.”

The line goes dead.

In our bedroom, I sit by his side and hold his limp hand as I wait with bated breath, continually talking to him as if he’s conscious. It’s nothing but a useless stream of babbling to calm myself down. When his eyelids flutter, I gasp and grab him by the shoulders again.

“Vincent? Please, talk to me. The emergency team is on their way. Please, just wake up.”

The Handbook says that in times of emergency like this, it’s better to remain calm like nothing is happening at all. I’m doing the exact opposite of that right now. My eyes burn from tears, and when I swipe at them with the back of my hand, my skin comes away stained a watery black from my eyeliner.

He murmurs something I can’t quite understand, and then there’s a quick rapping on the front door, something like a polite visitor dropping by for a dinner party. I practically slide on the carpet in my hurry to get to the front door, and it’s a crew of three Emergency Response Team members, all smiling and wearing identical black suits. The two in the back are holding a canvas stretcher.

“He’s in the bedroom,” I gasp, stepping out of the way for them. A scream wells up in my throat when they stroll inside like it’s a nice Sunday walk, and it’s hard to breathe, watching the two with the stretcher head down the hallway. The third one comes up to me and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but I want to rip away from his grasp.

“Your makeup is ruined,” he says in an empty, pleasant tone. “I recommend that you fix it as soon as we remove him from the bedroom. In times of crisis, it’s best to resume normalcy as quickly as possible.”

He stares at me for a few seconds longer, then lets go and turns to join the others in the bedroom.

They bring Vincent out and they don’t even need a stretcher; they help him walk out into the living room and I hover like a useless, twittering bird, wringing my hands as they lead him outside.

“Where are you taking him?” I ask. My voice sounds high and strained, and the three response members cast a chastising glance my way. None of them respond to me.

Two of them each have Vincent by an arm, helping him out the door, but the third one stays behind.

“Please resume your normal domestic duties while we sort out this issue,” he says, and I keep wiping at the makeup around my eyes, trying not to look him in the face. “We will complete a quick termination and your life will be back to normal.”

“What’s that?” My words are shaky. “How long will it take?”

“It’ll be over before you realize,” he promises. “At this time, you should be cleaning the kitchen. I advise that you start doing that.”

I’m still paralyzed in fear when he leaves. There’s a pins-and-needles feeling all through my body and it feels like my legs are going to collapse beneath me, too.

No, it’s not what I should be doing, but I stand by the window and pull apart the curtains with a trembling hand. He’s standing by himself in the middle of the yard and the three suited men are behind him.

One of them grabs an object from his hip and raises it. It’s small and dark, glinting in the early-morning sun, and I have to wrack my brain to recall its name. It’s a gun.

There’s an ear-shattering blast like a canon going off, and a spray of crimson erupts from the other side of his head. He topples forward and collapses facefirst in the trimmed green grass.

A hysterical, throat-ripping scream tears from my lungs.

I tear out the front door and stumble onto the lawn. Every breath that comes out of me is a gasping, heaving sob, and the men keep shouting, grabbing at my arms and shoulders while I try writhing out of their grasp. Vincent’s inert form is a dark, crumpled heap in the perfect grass, and the edges of my vision seem to be going grey around me. A starburst of pain explodes at the base of my skill and everything goes black for a moment, totally silent.

I’m breathing in the damp, earthy scent of the freshly-watered ground. When I crack my eyes open a slit, the world is sideways and fuzzy. Dark, too. All I can see are black-clad legs. There’s nothing but metallic tinnitus ringing in my ears. Something pushes me over onto my back.

The fierce white sun sears my vision. Looming over me is a massive shadow, taller than a skyscraper, it seems like. The man says something to me. I can’t muster a single sound.

There’s nothing I can do when he draws out the gun again and points it at my face.

—

On Sunday evening, a memorial service is held at the Meeting Hall. It’s a big brick building like a courthouse in the middle of town, an extension of an even bigger series of brick buildings where the Authorities conduct their business. Everyone comes out of their homes at noon in their best muted, dismal clothing and they gather in the wooden pews, the men with somber black hats and the ladies with dark veils over their faces. A broadcast was sent out over the television on Friday night, and then it was put in the paper for good measure.

It’s said that Vincent and Elaine died of carbon monoxide poisoning in their homes. It was quick and painless. This is what happens, warn the dark-dressed Authorities when they deliver a matter-of-fact eulogy, when couples breach their domestic protocol. All of it could have been avoided. We are very sorry.

It is not that difficult to be the perfect domestic partner.