Page 83 of Dirty Ink

“It’s just that I put in a favour with Rian and Conor to get today off,” Mason said as we wound through the throngs of people, all carrying more shit than the last. “And it would have been nice to know beforehand that you intended for us to do this.”

“Spending quality time together as husband and wife?” I asked.

Mason gave me a straight, unimpressed face. I smiled and tried again.

“Delving deeper into the depths of our relationship by exploring unexplored corners of domesticity?”

Mason scoffed.

Shrugging, I said, “Finding out who we are as a couple by throwing ourselves into the most high pressured of social situations to see if we fall apart or come out stronger?”

Mason rolled his eyes and pulled me away just in time so that I didn’t get a mouthful of some trashy French eau de parfum.

“Go to Jervis fecking Centre,” he said, dragging a hand over his face and groaning.

I reached down between us and intertwined my fingers with his. Mason just groaned louder when I swung our hands merrily back and forth.

“Ah! Here it is,” I said suddenly, dragging him behind me into the department store.

We were greeted with a wad of coupons and I drew them to my nose like they were flowers or money, breathing deeply.

“I really did fuck your brains out last night, didn’t I?” Mason grumbled.

I smacked him in the chest.

“This way.”

The fluorescent lights were horrible. Those long, dirty bulbs. The flickering. The unflattering tone that made everyone look sick. It was perfect. Shopping carts crowded the aisles like bumper cars. Dangerous for the fingers. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. There was everything you could have wanted: a crying baby, a crazy lady with a dog in a stroller, a shrill-voiced Karen demanding to see the manager, a misbehaving toddler knocking over a display of china, and, the pièce de résistance, a security alarm going off at the entrance to the store that wouldn’t shut off for God knows what reason. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

“Are you ready?” I asked Mason.

He looked like he was ready to puke, but I wasn’t sure whether that was the lights or he really was ready to puke. Either way, it was perfect.

“Ready for what?” Mason asked, half bored, half annoyed. One hundred percent already over it.

I did my best to hold back my laughter. I was already having so much fun.

Without warning I stopped beside a wall of kitchen towels. A whole aisle, really, of kitchen towels. All different kinds of material. All different kinds of patterns. There were stripes, there were flowers, there were kittens and duckies and for some reason little golden turkey legs. And don’t even get me started on all the printed slogans. “But First Coffee.” No, no, no: But First Fireworks!!!

Mason was waiting to continue, because of course we didn’t need kitchen towels. We didn’t have a kitchen.

So it must have come as even more of a surprise when I said loudly, too loudly, “Honey, come on. I thought we agreed!”

I wrenched my hand from Mason’s, made little fists at my side, stomped my feet petulantly. Mason just stared at me in bewilderment.

“You always do this,” I whined loudly, too loudly. “We always agree to something and then you just go and change your mind without telling me. Without talking to me. Without remembering that we’re supposed to be a team. You can’t just pick the kitchen towels without me. Especially after we agreed.”

A woman who was just about to turn her cart down the aisle we were in quickly decided against it. Mason’s head swivelled around before turning back to me. He narrowed his eyes at me. I stomped my foot.

“We agreed!” I shrieked.

I imagined what Tim would do if I tried this shit at the mall. Not that he would ever be caught dead in the mall. We had personal shoppers at Crate and Barrel for our informal kitchen needs, darling. If I raised my voice in a public place, Tim would have assumed I was having a stroke. Losing motor functions. The only way I could ever be out of control according to him was if I literally was out of control.

I imagined Tim glaring. Hissing, “Stop it. I said stop it!” Dragging me into the nearest changing room. Wagging his finger at me as I grinned against the changing table. I imagined Tim walking away. Running even. Glancing around him in the hopes that nobody had seen us together. Nobody of note at least. I imagined Tim having me committed. Feeling for my temperature. Covering my mouth and telling those around us who were watching in shock, “She’s an actress. It’s for a role. She’s not like this. Really. In real life she’s quite polite. Calm. Sweet. Innocent. Pretty. I mean, isn’t she such a sweet, innocent, pretty thing?” I imagined Tim howling when I bit his finger. I imagined him slapping me, but of course he never would.

Just like he’d never fuck me the way I wanted to be fucked. Just like he’d never see me the way I wanted to be seen. Just like he’d never, ever snatch a kitchen towel from the rack, wave it wildly, and shout at me, “No, no, love. You agreed. We never agreed. You confuse those two a lot, now don’t you?”

But Mason would.

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