Teaser
She adds the last of the fresh herbs to their dinner and catches the flicker of her own bright red nails out of the corner of her eye as the blackberry on the kitchen counter starts its alert sequence to let her know there's an incoming call. She is distracted by it. The device vibrates in short static bursts before playing a tune, The Ride of the Valkyries (because it's fun). Using the knife to scrape against the board, she finishes her task quickly, and reaches for her phone just as the first notes start to sound, B and then a C sharp. "Hi," she answers pleasantly, turning away from the roar of the extractor fan over the Napoli sauce.
"Hey babe, I'm pulling up now."
"Lovely," she smiles to herself and hangs up. She pours the red wine into the big bellied glasses; it has been decanted the precise amount of time. She knows exactly how to impress him. She knows all his buttons to push or undo, in any given situation, under any circumstance; she can read him like a book.
She stirs the pot, flicks back her hair, plasters that warm and welcoming kind of smile he finds so endearing on her lips. They're red too. So is her underwear. Everything must match. Everything has its place. And so does he. He has a role to play and lately, he hasn't been playing it very well. So tonight is a pinnacle moment for them. Either they're going to be ok from this point on, or she's going to make sure he's out in the cold. She won't be played. Not again.
There's a tap on the apartment door and she goes to answer it. She's wearing a tight black pencil skirt and a black shirt, part of her work 'uniform'. Now it will seem as though she's just got through the door but still went to the trouble of making him a thoroughly good meal, as well as picking up a bottle of his favourite wine from the store on her way. "Hi," she greets him as if she is genuinely pleased to see him.
"Hey babe," he walks over the threshold, gives her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then by passes her. "Something smells good," he notes from the kitchen. She follows him, her red fingernails trailing along the wall. He had his chance right then and he blew it.
She follows him, all demure and warm and not showing him that she's bothered and made up her mind. "Why don't you take the wine and go through to the dining room? I'll serve up now."
"Great, I'm starved!"
He takes the wine and leaves the room and she reaches for two of the polished white deep bowls from the cupboard where the rest of her designer dinner set his housed. Her kitchen is in charcoal greys and stainless steel; sophisticated and clean. There are no messy colours to contend with. She lifts the pasta from the pot of salted and oiled water. She holds it over the sink to let it drain, gives it a little shake to encourage the water out and then uses a large slotted spoon to portion the farfalle and conchiglie into each of the bowls; his slightly more because he's bigger than she is and also, she has to go to the gym after this to work off the guilt.
Her fingernails glint under the lights of the stove as she reaches for the bright red Napoli sauce. She uses another large spoon to dish out the amount she wants and then puts the pan down again. She goes to the cupboard and takes down a little folded up white square of paper that was hiding in the back, behind all the things he won't even touch, the things he mocks her for having; they're only vitamins. She takes the square and unfolds it and watches as the prepared white powder runs down the groove and falls in a nice neat pile on top of the sauce. Such a pretty contrast of pure white and gory red. She places the paper's corner into the flame of the gas, makes sure it's a light, and then takes it to the sink where it can finish being destroyed. She mixes the sauce thoroughly and spoons the rest of it onto his serving. There is just enough. She's planned this perfectly.
"Oh good I'm so hungry!" He just about salivates at the mouth as she comes in with both plates. Parmesan cheese has been freshly grated; a sprig of fresh basil has been saved as garnish.
She places the plate in front of him and he doesn't wait for her to sit before digging in to his meal. She smiles and sips her wine first and asks him how it is. He gives a vigorous nod of enthusiasm and an 'uh huh' in the back of his throat; his mouth is full and he can't talk right now. She puts her glass back down and picks up her fork delicately.
They eat in silence. He wolfs down his meal, gulps back his wine. She eats at a steady pace, all the time in the world, everything will happen in its own time. She can be patient. She's done this before and it always works out the way she wants it too. He doesn't offer to do the dishes. She knew he wouldn't. So it gives her the opportunity to clear away all the evidence. She scrubs the kitchen down like she would on any night, but this time, just that little bit more thoroughly.
He's watching television on the couch. She cuddles up next to him. He puts his heavy arm around her shoulder and she thinks for a fleeting moment, blood red lips pursed for a moment, that she might miss him. He smells nice and is clean and tidy. He's affectionate sometimes and listens to her just enough for her to think he might be interested. But there's always something that is 'off' between them. There is something about him that isn't what she is looking for. She tried changing him, moulding him in all those little ways that women attempt to do. But nope. He's unchangeable. And he started to get annoyed. So she backed off.
"I'm going to head out," she tells him with a kiss on his cheek. She leaves a faint outline of her mouth on his skin.
"Where are you off to?" He asks, his hand trails down her arm as she gets up. He looks up at her, his dark eyes in contradiction to her blues.
"The gym."
"Oh right," he responds and his interest is back with the television again. "Of course you are."
She goes to her bed room to change into her gym clothes. It's an old argument. He teases her about working out too much. She asks him what 'too much' could possibly entail. So she goes every night after work. Is that really a big deal? She wants to be fit and she wants to look good. She refuses to eat carbohydrates more than twice a week. It should tip him off that this is the third meal.
She tells him she'll be back in an hour and that he should stay at her place and wait for her. He gives her a smile and says he will; although on two occasions he's said that and left anyway. She goes to the door, the smile fading from her face. It could have been 'their' place. She asked and he refused. Said she was getting too clingy, that she was moving them forward too fast. She suspected he had someone else. What other logical explanation could there be for him not wanting her?
Her fingernails create a stark contrast against the gold of the doorknob of her front door. She walks down the corridor, takes the elevator down and strides out to her car. She spends half an hour at the gym and then she goes to see him. He's working of course. He works too much and he should really consider spending more time with his wife and kids. He's happy, she can tell, but he really could be so much happier if he was just as dedicated to his family as he was to this Naval hospital. She can see he's been promoted to Commander and she's proud of him. He doesn't recognise her. She's coloured her hair. So she can sit quite comfortably in the ER and watch him work, laugh with the nurses, save lives.
Twenty minutes later she gets up and goes back out to her car. It's spring, but it's still chilly and so she shivers now that her muscles have cooled. She wonders if that is a sign and thinks about the irony of him saving lives. She drives home in her black sedan. Her fingernails seem to glow in the shadowed oranges of the streetlights. She's back right on time, when she said she would be; she is a woman of her word and always determined to uphold something when her mind is set to it.
She unlocks the door and pushes it open. He's lying on the couch. His eyes are closed like he is peaceful but if she has calculated this carefully, and she has, she knows it's not entirely what it seems. She puts her bag down by the door and crosses the room calmly. She leans over him, calls his name, gives him a little shake. He doesn't stir. She purses those blood red lips of hers and steps back to observe him. She gives a little smile. She stands and admires her handiwork for a moment. And then she reaches for her phone.
Opening Credits