Read The Perfect View another short story

The Perfect View by Fiona J Holt

You open the curtains in the morning and you stand in front of the window blocking the sun like a black cloud. I hate you for it.
But nothing can prepare me for what you say next.
"You know, my life would be perfect if you were dead." The words slip out your mouth as if you’re commenting on the weather.
I sit up in bed and begin applying some moisturiser carefully and slowly to my face. "Uh, huh …" I let my voice trail, to show you my apparent disinterest.
You swivel your eyes round at me, they are narrowed, like slim bullets. "Don’t know why you bother smothering yourself in all that stuff." You bite viciously. "Doesn’t make you look any better."
You are annoyed at my lack of response to your cruel comment. Nothing annoys you more than when I act like I don’t care. You stomp out of the room dramatically and when the door slams shut, rattling in its hinges like it does every time you leave the room, I look at my reflection in the mirror and smile, pleased.
Today I have won, without having to utter more than a mere few syllables. I know that you probably lay awake late last night, planning with great care a suitable phrase to break me with. You’re wasting your time of course. You broke me beyond repair a long time ago. I will never ever let you know this.
*
We sit down to dinner some time later. I have arrived home late from work and you are already pouring me a wine. You’ve had a few yourself, I notice. Red wine goes to your head quicker than any other type of alcohol.
I used to find this cute. Now I find it pathetic. Your eyes which are normally as clear and as blue as a child’s, have a drunken, glazed film over them, the whites scratched with tiny red spider-leg lines.
I never used to notice things like this.
"When I said that this morning," you say loudly, "I meant things would be easier if you just, died." You say the last word while laughing and wait for me to reply.
I chew my food slowly and sip at my wine.
"You know, that way I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to stay with you, the decision would be made for me." You try your best to make a joke of it but I simply ignore you. "A top up?" you ask even though it’s clear to both of us that I don’t need one.
"No." I say.
You splash wine into my glass anyway. You’re trying to get me drunk, possibly so I’ll sleep with you later on.
I sigh and push my plate away.
"Not hungry?"
"I’m going out."
"Where?" Your voice takes on an argumentative tone.
"Just out." I pull on my coat. I’ve only had it off ten minutes.
You watch almost sadly as I fasten each button one by one. "But…where are you going?"
I don’t answer you. Your eyes don’t leave my face until I’m out the door.
*
When I quietly tip toe my way into the bedroom in the smaller hours of the morning, you are sound asleep. The smell of the wine on your breath is sharp and strong in my face and I grimace at your sleeping outline.
"Where have you been till this time?" You murmur in the darkness.
I quietly ignore you. I can hardly tell you the truth, that I have been lying for half the night on a bed much softer than this one, with your lovely dark-haired friend Paul, who doesn’t smell of stale wine. You mumble your disapproval at my lateness and I stare at the ceiling. I don’t want to be here but when you softly curl your arm around my middle, I let you, and I let you keep it there till morning.
*
Today when you open the curtains you turn round and smile at me but you still block my view of the morning sun. When I don’t return your smile you glower and throw another insult at me instead.
"When are you going to stop wearing those ugly tee shirt things to bed?"
I look down at what I’m wearing. Unflattering, yes. Worn and faded, but comfy and warm and familiar.
"You never used to wear stuff like that." You rant as you slam the shaky door behind you.
You never used to hate me, I think bitterly.
*
This time I’m home from work first. I make us dinner and lay out the table. When you don’t come home, I wonder but I don’t worry. I go to bed, wondering.
I hear you roll in the door some time after twelve. I hear you thud clumsily against the walls. You are either very drunk or very angry. When I see your face at the bedroom door I know you are both.
You stare at me coldly, saying nothing. The minutes tick between us.
"Where were you?" I finally venture.
Your eyes twist in their sockets like two clenched fists.
"No, the question is where were you?" Your voice cracks across the room, through the darkness and into my face like gunfire. "Last night." You add and I feel my stomach turn over slowly while turning to lead.
It never occurred to me that you might find out.
"You slept with my best friend!" You scream suddenly. "How could you do that to me? How could you, come into our bed -"
"Why do you care if you hate me?" I interrupt.
You stop shouting and look at me, surprised. "I…hate you?"
You ask with such puzzlement that I can’t help but explode into vicious laughter. "The things you say to me, the insults! Only the other day you wished me dead!"
"I don’t hate you." You say quietly and your eyes are so sad and sincere that my face reddens in the dark. I suddenly realise that you are telling me the truth. "You are the one who hates me." You say and although I don’t want to, I can pick out the deep hurt in your voice. "Every morning I get up and you look at me with such hate…I’m fed up being nice to you, only to be snubbed by you."
I want to say something to you, something childish like ‘but you started to hate me first’ but I realise that I can’t actually remember who hated who first.
"I only say those things to hurt you, but you don’t even care, you obviously feel nothing for me." You tell me through the darkness. "But if you feel something for him…"
I want to tell you I don’t, but the words won’t come because saying them would make you right, and me wrong.
I did start hating you first. I don’t even know why.
You slam the door and it rattles on its lonely hinges. I stare at the ceiling as I hear you leave.
*
In the morning the curtains are already open, but only because I forgot to close them last night. That was your job, you always made sure they were closed.
You aren’t there today, you aren’t standing in the way, blocking the sun. As I lie in bed the warm sun creeps up on to my face like a slow, silent intruder. It shines strongly, brightly. Bright and white, glaring in my eyes.
I glare back until my eyes water. Then I get up and close the damn curtains.


(c) Fiona J Holt 2001