Love,Eternal

Lauréne took one last look at herself in the mirror, for the hundredth time. She contemplated on whether or not the burgundy floral spaghetti strap dress was too look at me. She contemplated on wearing his favorite color on her as one last hurrah. But more than anything, she contemplated on not even showing up. Who has a farewell dinner with their ex spouse? One who has not only been unfaithful but psychologically abusive (Gaslighting, threats, constant sexist remarks, etc) as well. Nothing physical but that doesn't make the situation any less traumatic. But it sure as hell would have made her leave a lot sooner instead of staying that entire year of torture, just to develop an eating disorder and fucked up self-esteem. Having one less dinner with him was starting to sound like a nightmare, but one last goodbye couldn't hurt right? She unplugged her phone and shoved it in her purse and began making her way. The answer was going to be "yes" all along because truthfully... she was still afraid of him. Michael towered over her. 6'5, and 280lbs at minimum. He's developed a beer gut, nothing outlandish (more or less a dad bod), but he's all steel baby. A Brawny Paper Towel mascot come to life.
Michael was at his home. Their former home. Preparing her favorite baking dish; Baked Ziti. Extra cheese. There was a knock at his door. He glanced at his watch and then hurried to the door. "What happened? I thought you said 7." Michael asked the shabby looking man walking inside, then shutting the door with force. "My bad man, traffic." he said sniffling tiredly. "That's what phones are for. To let me know." Michael was angry. Livid, even. His lower lids inflamed from the restless nights he's been experiencing since he finally excepted the fact that Lauréne wasn't coming back. She didn't need a break. She was done. "Where is it?"Michael asked, more so, demanded. The shabby man reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an old fashioned medicine bottle. Truly. It was green glass with a cork being the stopper. Michael held it to the light to see how much was inside. "Pretty sure that bottle alone can take down a horse..." He said. "...hell, maybe two." Michael didn't respond. He shoved a few hundred dollar bills into the man's hand and sent him on his way with a message to keep in mind: "You were never here. And you don't know me."

Lauréne nervously rolled the heart shaped vile between her fingers that hung around her neck. Her mom had given it to her three months ago, after she revealed the divorce papers to her. She blessed it as protection, knowing Michael was dangerous. Knowing anyone willing to put someone through an emotional harrowing situation was also capable of causing physical harm if they realize that control they once had over the other person, was now gone. Which is why her mother's call went unanswered. Her mother seem to have a sixth sense for when her daughter was either in danger or going to make a bad decision. She was Lauréne's gut feeling. It was unnerving most times. But she (Lauréne) knew she would be okay. The most he'd do is convince her to give him another chance. Try, at the very least. He was far from being one to ask something. If he wanted it, he'd have it.
Michael opened the front door as Lauréne pulled into the driveway. She smiled, faintly, but genuinely. He smiled back as he watched her walk up the steps to the porch. He seemed eager, but in a Damien Thorne overtone. And the obvious appearance of sleep deprivation wasn't doing him any justice. His shirt looked like it had been in the bottom of a hamper for weeks until today, his unkempt beard exceeding mid-neck, and his hair barely brush. He looked like shite. Reluctantly, she excepted his hand at the last step and lead her to the dining table. The kitchen light being bright enough, shone well into the dining area. Michael still placed a candle in the middle. He actually made the set up look decent without her help. She guessed he was actually paying attention to something she did and retained it. "What about you?" She asked when he poured her a glass of wine but chose soda for himself instead. "I never really cared for wine like that, you know that." He said from the kitchen, pulling the aluminum foil from the Pyrex. She watched him over her shoulder and to her utter disappointment, he was watching her too. "Go on. It's a white Zinfandel. Your favorite." He said in a way that seemed to indicate he was telling her it was her favorite. She turned back around, grabbing the glass and brought it to her lips. Hesitantly, she sipped,audibly. She perked up, turning to him again. "This is sweet! Where did you get it?" She smiled almost kid like, sending a bit of guilt up his spine. She had no clue what was coming. He gave each of them two big scoops of baked ziti and placed them on the table. "The convenient store. The one on 8th Street and May." He finally spoke when he sat down. He had a grimace look on his face. Accompanied by his appearances and delayed response, this was even more horrifying. "So... Let's eat." He finally smiled normally. She cleared her throat and picked up her fork. He had already shoved a forkful into his mouth, his eye still watching her. They ate in silence for two solid minutes before Michael broke the silence. "Have you started dating again?" Lauréne nearly choked on the wine. "What?" She chuckled. He didn't speak, only stared. There was that familiar feeling again. Very cold, just like all those times that lead to this very moment. "I just filed three months ago. We have to wait another three months for me to even think about that." She protested. Michael responded with a shrug and continued eating, his eyes now down at his plate. Lauréne sighed and began picking at the pasta taking a few bites here and there to ensure she didn't insult him. His hard work for this "special night". Finally they began to converse once he came back with the Parmesan cheese he so desperately needed. It was two strangers in the elevator talk but it was better than the deafening silence. "What's the matter? Need salt?" Michael asked when he realized she was picking at it rather than eating it. "No..." She gave him a reassuring smile that caused him to stop mid-chew. She looked tired. Exhausted, even. "... I-I just..." she cleared her throat. "Him..." He stared blankly, waiting. Almost dreading it. "... I just wanted to talk...to you about something." lazily she sat back in the chair, the fork making a sharp echo off the ceramic plate. "I-I know we have had our ups and downs to say the least but..." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She didn't seem to care she had smeared her lipstick across her chin and cheek. "... after these past few months and not being with you, it has me thinking." "What?" Michael's voice cracking. His grip on the fork loosened. "What?" He said again when she appeared to be thinking. "I think we can make it work.""What?" He said for the third and hopefully the final time. "Yeah..." She began. "... I think we should figure out what went wrong and why. Find ways to communicate our...disagreements in a more positive manner you know?" Michael continue staring, his heart rapidly beating throughout his body. "I know you're going to disagree because you're a very private person but..." She cleared a throat again, her hand over her chest as she inhaled sharply. "I think we should get a...a therapist." She exhaled. "Only when we..." she cleared her throat yet again "...we need to. If we can. Maybe... soon... I think I..." She began slurring, her sentences becoming more and more incomprehensible. "What are you saying? You want to stay with me?"Michael's face now full of nothing but disquietude. She responded with a shaky nod and smile. Her hand still over her chest. "Shit." He said under his breath, looking down at his plate; no longer able to look at her. "I think... I need water..." Her voice drawn out like a dying stray cat in an alleyway. She began to stand, stumbling a little, but Michael sat her back down; his anxiety through the roof. "Ev..." his hands were shaking. "Everything's going to be OK. I'll get you some water." He hurried into the kitchen, grabbing the pitcher of water out of the refrigerator. He fumbled through the pile of dirty dishes in the sink for the least dirty cup and began pouring. This is when he realized something was wrong. Besides his mixed emotions of anxious but happy she was trying to work things out, he was physically unwell. He could barely hold the pitcher without shaking. His heart rate increased even more when he realized he was losing more and more time to save her as the clock on the wall ticked. That obnoxiously loud cat clock his nana gave him years ago that he always hated but he loved her too much to take it down. He stumbled back from the sink, his legs wobbly in the process. He was confused. He was scared. Her living would be bad news for him. But so was killing her too. But if he was being honest, he'd rather her be dead than alive and happy with someone else. Now that she decided to give him a chance; he had to backpedal. As he turned around to check on the rain, his back was met with the tile floor, the pitcher smashed into pieces beside him and water everywhere. He felt the air around him getting heavier, his heartbeat now in his ears as if he just finished the 5K triathlon. He panted like a dog, his limbs and body convulsing. He tried raising up on his elbows but his body felt so heavy. He struggled to roll over onto his stomach, the taste of blood in his mouth from involuntarily biting his tongue.

The sound of glass crunching could be heard vaguely, Michael feeling considerably sleepy at this point. He was lying on his side facing the dining room. No longer at the table but right in front of him was Lauréne. Her white sandals and always-pedicured toes were standing eye-level to him. He used what strength he had left to lift his wobbling head to face her. She looked displeased, looking down at him with her hands on her hips like he was a family's new puppy who just ran through her garden of Marigolds and tracked mud onto the freshly mopped floor. "Michael..." Her voice was now coherent and back to his usual sheepish tone. "... Baby..." She continued. "... you really need to stop fighting it." "W-wh..." he was too tired to even speak. She squatted so that she was more face-to-face to him. As she leaned over to kiss his forehead, he saw that her necklace was partially empty. He didn't notice it had anything in it to begin with until now; now that it was swinging and liquid was splashing around inside. When he went to grab the parmesan cheese from the kitchen, she was already clutching her necklace; ready to strike. She poured a heaping amount of the liquid into his pasta, not bothering to stir it since he'd do that once he added the cheese. As far as the wine, she poured it on the carpet between her feet, as quietly as she could. She never drank it. The bitter smell of almonds was the first thing to hit her sinuses when she lifted the glass, therefore she only let it hit her lips, pretended to drink while her back was to him. She was very familiar with the smell of cyanide. Maybe if she hadn't watch that documentary on it all those years ago and it hadn't stuck with her all this time; she'd be the one in his position right now.

He reached for her, she intercepted his hand by grabbing it and held it comfortingly before letting it fall. Tears start forming in his eyes as drool pooled on to the floor before him. "I really need you to let go." She spoke in a way that said he was currently of inconvenience. But her tone soft like that of a counselor. "I thought you wanted..." His words began dying off as he watched her stand, rolling her eyes as she did. He grabbed her ankle, weakly, only for her to use her foot to push him flat on his back. She watched him in silence as he continued fighting, thick drool running into his ears and his body twitching comfortably. "All good things must come to an end, they always say." She said, Continuing to watch him. When he finally stopped moving and his eyes seemed to dull over and his chest stopped rising; a sense of freedom washed over her. She grabbed her purse, opened the front door and stepped into the cool crisp California air as the sun began setting. It felt different. Better. She shut the door behind her, got in her car and drove to her parents house for their weekly dinner night. Everything would be A-Okay.