Open Wounds
The February before Peggy's father died she made a valentine for him at school. She cut a piece of red construction paper into a jagged heart and glued a picture of a bouquet of roses in the middle. She wrote a message on the back and signed it Love, Margaret.
Peggy's mother kept the valentine in a drawer for many years. Every so often Peggy found it and felt how the paper had softened over time, how the edges had frayed. It had a distinct smell from being trapped in a small space with random objects – rubber bands, small jars of spice.
The city reeked of roses and perfume on Peggy's commute home. She didn't know how it escaped her that morning, all of the women wearing shades of red and pink and carrying boxes of chocolates and teddy bears.
She arrived at her building and hurried up the stairs and into her apartment. Peggy turned each lock and pressed her back to the door, sealing herself inside the dim, colorless safety of her home. She wouldn't have to look at anything heart-shaped for the rest of the night.
x
Winter in California was unsettling. It was fifty-two degrees and Ted walked out of the building with his suit jacket folded over his arm. He made it around the corner near where his car was parked before he realized he'd forgotten Nan's gift.
Ted retraced his steps all the way back to his office. He turned one lamp on, casting a weak dome of light over his desk. He picked up the small, unwrapped jewelry box. That was what he needed to leave again but his feet were planted on the floor. He folded his jacket over the back of a chair and leaned his briefcase against the side of his desk. Ted sat in his chair and removed the lid from the box.
The jeweler told him the bracelet was called Bird of Paradise. It was an intricate gold design linked together by delicate flowers. He removed it, draping it over the back of his fingers. He imagined clasping it around a small wrist, the tips of his fingers lingering against soft skin.
x
Peggy crushed her cigarette against the bottom of the glass ashtray and stood from the couch. She had never bothered to turn a light on and stubbed her toes on a leg of the coffee table. "Shit," she cursed, clenching her toes. "Shit, shit, shit." She hobbled on the heel of her foot in the direction of her bed and sat down. Peggy reached down and squeezed her hand around her throbbing toe until the pain subsided.
She leaned back, her body sideways on the bed, one leg hanging off the side. She remained there a long while before scooting back and settling her head over the pillows. Peggy tried to distract herself by thinking about Accutron and whether or not she was going to join her family for Sunday dinner. But she couldn't go very long without thinking about the flowers. Their scent permeated the air as if she'd carried it home on her skin.
Peggy fought against the pressure building behind her eyes, but it was no use. Her face crumpled and tears spilled from the corners of her eyes down to her ears. She folded her arm across her face, soaking the sleeve of her pajama top. She took several quick, deep breaths and then it was over.
She told herself she wasn't upset because of the farce that had taken place outside her office – starting with Peggy mistaking the roses for her own and Shirley not wanting to correct her. She told herself she wasn't upset that nobody had actually sent her flowers. She wasn't even upset because Ted hadn't actually sent her flowers. Peggy was wrecked because, deep down, she had been thrilled at the idea of receiving a bouquet from Ted.
Flowers from Ted Chaough shouldn't have made her happy. She was angry, of course, that he would give her false hope. That he would think a dozen roses amounted to some kind of worthy apology. But Peggy smiled for a moment and for a moment she was relieved Ted was thinking about her after all.
She closed her eyes. She curled onto her side and then the other. Peggy pulled the blankets over her and then kicked them off. She tried again to think about work. She recalled a conversation with Anita about a single man that had moved into the neighborhood and considered wearing something short to Sunday dinner. But then Peggy thought about her black dress with the pink bow and how it loosened around her body when Ted pulled the zipper down.
Peggy flipped onto her back again. She fought it every night, but her mind always wandered back to that kiss by the door and leaving a trail of Ted's clothes to the bed. She wondered if the memory would ever dull, if there would come a time she wouldn't still feel his hands at her hips or his mouth at her breast.
Her hand was resting over her heart. Peggy's thumb slipped under the fabric of her pajama top, between two buttons. She unhooked one button and then another, sliding her hand under the cloth and rubbing the heel of her hand across her breast.
The sudden buzz of the phone startled her out of a deep, dreamlike state. Peggy sat up with a start and scrambled onto her knees, crawling to the other side of the bed. She reached over to the nightstand and felt around for the receiver. She answered, trying to catch her breath. "Hello?"
x
Ted quietly set the receiver back into place, ending the call without saying a word. He could still hear Peggy's slightly labored breath rattle against his ear. He could almost feel its warmth.
He got up from his seat and walked to the sofa. Ted stretched himself across the cushions and held his hand up, looking at the sparkle of the gold bracelet in the dim room. He squeezed his fingers around the chain and clenched his fist against the permanent throb in his chest.