Hand by: John Owens, Acrylic and string on paper, 2010.
The Perfect Wife
by: Curtis Craig
The sun floods the room. I wake slowly. It’s Sunday morning, another day to spend with my husband. I walk down to the kitchen and begin making breakfast, like I do every morning. I enjoy making breakfast for my husband, which is what a good wife does. And I am, of course, a good wife. In fact, I am a great wife. I cook, I clean, and I take care of my husband and never complain a bit, as mother always said that a good wife does. The coffee is going, waking him up with its aroma. Finally he joins me.
“Good morning honey,” he says with a kiss.
“It is about time you wake up; you plan on helping me with breakfast?” I firmly say.
“How can I help? Would you like me to start the toast, or maybe scramble the eggs?” He asks with a smile. I quietly laugh. I make the best scrambled eggs and my toast is always a perfect golden brown.
“We will end up with burnt toast and dried, cold eggs. Don’t bother!” I quickly responded. The expression on his face is that of a hurt child.
“Well then I will pour us coffee.” he says as he pulls down coffee cups. I swiftly grab the mugs.
“Now you know these are only for guests, we never drink out of them. Don’t trouble yourself with the coffee; you always put too much creamer in it. I’ll do it myself.” He shrugs his shoulders and goes to the table. He picks up the sports page and begins to read. The nerve of him, just sitting there waiting for me to serve him. Here I am always pulling my share and there he is doing what he does best, being second-rate.
I think for a moment, this is the fourth time in a row that I have cooked him breakfast without him even lifting a finger to help. He’s far from a good husband, far from perfect, and nothing compared to me. The timer goes off.
“What’s all that smoke coming from?” he asks.
“The toast is ready.” I quickly remove the scrambled eggs from the microwave as they bubble over the rim of the bowl.
“Breakfast is done. Your plate is on the counter.” I sit down at the table with my plate, another flawless breakfast. He is so lucky. What would he do without me?