Yes, Dear

"Yes, dear."

He had always said that in answer to my questions. It irritated me to no end. I could ask him for a million dollars and his reply would always be the same.

"Yes, dear"

I often wondered what he would have looked like with some kind of emotion on his face. I could never see behind the wide newspaper that ever floated before his eyes in the morning, and when he stood from breakfast, the food on his plate had magically disappeared. Have a good day at work, I would tell him as he walked towards the door after the mandatory peck on the cheek.

"Yes, dear"

And when he got home from work, promptly at six as always, he put his briefcase by the door, took off his tie, and kissed my cheek again. Did he have a good day?

"Yes, dear"

He would walk to the bedroom while I went to the kitchen to finish dinner, and when he came to the table, he was in his comfortable plaid pajama pants and a sweatshirt. I never liked those pajamas. They reminded me of my drunk father. He would wait for me to sit, serve me first, then eat his food with little conversation. I constantly wondered if his thoughts raced through questions as mine did. Did he wonder what I did every day while he was at work? Did he know that I had little to do after cleaning the single floor of our one bedroom cottage? That I sat and watched soap operas until it was time to cook dinner? I didn't even eat lunch. I was never hungry for it.

But he never asked me questions. And whatever I asked him, the answer was always the same.

Did he enjoy dinner?

"Yes, dear."

Should we accept the invitation for the soiree at the Jones's?

"Yes, dear."

Was everything okay at work?

"Yes, dear."

Oh, how I hated that response. I could not seem to ask him a question that did not receive that answer. It was impossible. Perhaps I was incompetent at asking the right questions. I tried. I truly did. I wanted to know what he was thinking. What went on behind that peaceful mask of his? Was he having an affair? Did he have a secret smoking problem? Drinking, perhaps? Drugs? Or was he just impassive and content to work day in and day out with the same old routine? Did he want to go out for a special night?

"Yes, dear."

So bland, so uninterested, so calm. I hated it! Why could he not show me the least amount of irritation, joy, sadness, rage? Anything, and I would have loved it. I would have rejoiced for it. I needed him to show me emotion. I was being driven out of my mind with this perfect husband who never did anything wrong, and never answered me anything but--

"Yes, dear."

I could have had an affair, I suppose. I was plenty attractive, and I knew many places where no questions were asked and wedding rings were no barrier to a relationship. But my mother had brought me up as a proper woman. A woman who was loyal to her man forever and always. A woman who never complained, never asked for more than he gave, never tried to change what her husband wanted. I could never have betrayed him.

But I so wanted to go out, to see the world, to explore. To go with someone who truly enjoyed it as much as I did. Someone who would explode in the moment of ecstasy, anger, jubilation. Someone who voiced his loves and dislikes. Someone who answered me with more than just--

"Yes, dear."

I did what I had to do.

After five years of marriage to a robot in a man's clothing, I had to do something about it. I would never have divorced him. That was unthinkable. Such a scandal. I have so many friends who have divorced their husbands and since remarried, even twice or three times, but I could never do that. It was rude. No matter how horrible a husband is, unless he beats you, one ought never subject him to the ridicule of a divorce.

But what else was there to do? I could not change him. He was as he always was and will be. So calm. It was what attracted me to him in the first place. I was a whirlwind, so said everyone I knew, and he was the anchor to hold me down. I should have seen how much he would drag me to the ground, drive me to the brink of insanity with his impassive ways. I wish I could have foreseen what would happen. What he would make me do.

I suppose it was a little crass, but it is done.

I stare at the face of my dead husband and wonder if his skin really is that pale, or if it's just the moonlight playing with my eyes. He looks so peaceful lying there. Just like always. Calm, tranquil. Never putting up a fight. Not even when I had plunged the knife into his warm, beating heart. He had winced, and for bare second his eyes had locked with mine, and then he had died.

There had been so much blood. My kitchen floor was covered with splatters, drips of blood that I still need to go home and wipe up. A woman should never be caught with a messy home. And the puddle where he had been standing would take some scrubbing. I hope it doesn't stain the linoleum. Blood is disgusting. Somewhat entrancing, but gross, warm, sticky.

I pick up the shovel and begin to cover him with musky earth.

Just a small variation of his never changing reply, and he would be alive right now. My kitchen would be sparkling clean as always. The carving knife would be safe in its drawer, and he would be lying next to me in bed, warm, comfortable. Not lying in the dirt in my garden while I dumped compost on him. Him and his favorite pajamas.

I am starting to forget what he looked like as I shovel dirt onto his face and body. Green eyes? Or were they grey? His hair was brown… I think. I know he was handsome, although some may have called him rugged. My first impression of his good looks was… well, I don't remember. Had he been a good kisser? Had I enjoyed the few nights when he and I had been fully man and wife? I can't recall.

I can't even remember what his favorite food was. Did he have a favorite food? Or had he liked everything I'd cooked? Not that it matters now. He's dead, and my garden hasn't grown anything for quite some time. His decomposition will most likely enrich the soil. I hope it doesn't spoil the taste of the vegetables I plan to grown next year. If I had asked him whether or not there was anything funny about them, he probably would have answered as always.

"Yes, dear."

I have such a mess to clean up when I go inside. At least he won't be around to help me. Mopping up the red like a good husband, finding the last little droplets, shining up the glass. I can just imagine him in his dirty jeans and ripped up old shirt, baseball cap on his head. Would he hand me the paper towels?

"Yes, dear."

And I need the sponge.

"Yes, dear."

I finish covering him with soil and lean the shovel on the side of the fence. I can put it away tomorrow. Or maybe he'll do it. Just like he always does. Finishing whatever I started, doing whatever I asked; he would probably kiss my muddy feet if I asked him to. I hate the mud. I should ask him to wash it off for me.

"Yes, dear."

And then perhaps he can get me a cup of coffee, with that overly sweet answer, just like always.

"Yes, dear."

Oh, but... he's dead.

Oh well.

It's short, and random... I know. Just... ehm... review. It's not as good as I wanted it, predictable, perhaps... but oh well. Haha... yeah. Oh, and I changed it, so Kenny's Friend, let me know what you think of the difference.