Clean up in Aisle Five

In the kitchen that Ikea built, Clara watches Frank chew. She has never noticed how aggressive he looked when he eats. He curls his fist around his fork and guards his plate with the other arm as if he expects her to swoop in and steal a blob of his mashed potatoes at any minute. She tries to catch his eye and turn the moment into an inside joke but his eyes are steadfastly fixed on his plate. She amazed he doesn’t choke. He shovels food into his mouth with the speed and steadiness of an assembly line worker. She can hear his wet chewing which is only interrupted by noisy swallowing and short snorts, like a car engine turning over.
She tries to remember how he ate on their first date. They met at the grocery store, both reaching for the last jar of hot pickled eggplant. She was too busy staring at the crinkly smile lines beside his eyes and the way his curly hair stuck out below his ears and had dropped the jar. She watched mortified as the pool of oil and brine soaked into her boots. He laughed and pulled her to safety, introduced himself and promised to take her to a nearby deli that served eggplant sandwiches that were to die for. She was dazzled by his perfect teeth but managed to joke that she wasn’t sure she was ready to die for eggplant. He laughed again and she started to think that maybe if she got to share the eggplant with him it was worth dying for.
She really can’t remember the way he chewed that sandwich. She doesn’t even remember whether the sandwich was even very good. She only remembers that her own jaw ached from smiling so much. She remembers prematurely wondering what their children would look like and whether he’s want a formal wedding. Any nausea she felt was the result of giddiness, not disgust.
Clara gets up and brings her plate to the sink. She scrapes the rest of the spongy meatloaf, cold peas and lumpy potatoes into the garburator. Disturbed by its mechanical cries, Frank finally looks up.
-Not hungry?
-I guess not.
Frank nods and goes back to his shoveling as Clara rinses the dishes. The clink of glasses and cutlery isn’t enough to mask Frank’s slobbery chewing.

Clara places her book on the floor and clicks off the bedside reading lamp. Frank farts and turns over without a word. Clara slides to the edge to avoid being hit with the smell when she turns on her side later. “Goodnight” she whispers. “Night” Frank grunts. Clara considers sliding in for a peck but she’s nervous about unleashing the stench she is sure is trapped beneath their floral quilt. She tries to remember the last time they were intimate. It’s been a while, probably since the last time she washed the sheets, which was at least three weeks ago. It’s probably time to wash them again. Maybe she should get it out of the way before she washes them again.
She ignores the smell and curls against Frank’s back. He gets the hint and turns around. He kisses her neck and kneads her breasts for the prescribed two minutes and then asks her if she’s ready. She nods so he pulls down both of their bottoms and rolls on top of her as she composes a mental grocery list. A few minutes later he asks if she’s finished. She nods yes because she’s even remembered dental floss.
He tries to curl up to her, wrapping himself around her like an octopus, but she pushes him off and inches to the edge. She is too old to sleep in the wet spot. She remembers when she couldn’t sleep without her head on Frank’s chest. Now the sound of his snoring keeps her awake. She hears him shift and settle. Momentarily she wonders what he’s thinking about but that thought is quickly replaced with a reminder to add baking soda to the list.

In the supermarket Clara stares at a can of tomato soup. She is searching for the sodium content. Frank has to watch his salt intake. Nothing tastes as good anymore. She’s having a hard time reading the ant like letters on the tin. The blinding fluorescent light makes everything dance. She notices that the hand holding the can looks jaundiced. She wonders if it’s the lights or if there’s something wrong with her. She makes a mental note to stock up on vegetables.
Suddenly the PA crackles and a voice leaking adolescence pipes in “Clean up on aisle 5”. She checks the Verdana type sign above her wishing some disembodied voice would order a clean up in her life. She wonders about the person behind the voice. For some reason she imagines he has red hair and ruddy cheeks fighting acne and attempting to grow a beard. He would have the perfectly muscular body that only adolescence can provide so effortlessly. As he scans her items their eyes will meet and he will sweep everything off the counter. They will fuck under the fluorescent lights, their bodies moving to the rythms of the conveyor belt and beeps of the scanner. At the end he would turn to her and whisper “paper or plastic?” She shivers but it is mostly just the icy air conditioning. Clara plunks two cans of tomato soup into the shopping cart, sodium content be damned.
She pushes the recalcitrant shopping cart around the corner into the produce department. The cart squeals its protest the whole way and almost forces Clara into a pyramid of cereal that is stacked at the foot of the aisle but she makes it into the produce selection without destroying any of the attractive displays. The air there is damp with the spray of dozens of miniature sprinklers. Between the scent of Pinesol and the mist from the sprinklers, Clara imagines she is walking through a synthetic rainforest which seems an apt analogy for her life at the moment: a poor imitation of the real thing. She sighs, grabbing a dripping bundle of spinach and some waxy apples and headed to the pharmacy aisle. She needs Ibuprofen.

Clara sits in the old corduroy armchair and folds laundry. It has been sitting in the dryer too long and should probably be ironed but Clara refuses to iron. Frank half watches the hockey game on the TV in between fits of snoring. Every once and a while he startles awake and cheers or curses as he sees fit. As Clara smoothes the laundry, she checks Franks collars for lipsticks marks. She knows that even if he were having an affair –which she’s sure he’s not- the chances that his mistress would leave such an obvious clue are slim to none. Still, she secretly hopes. Oh, to be able to confront him and storm out, safe in the cloak of victimhood. Her friends and family would rally around her, offering sugary treats and consolation. Or maybe she would just confront his lover. There is something appealing about the thought of fighting for her love. She is not particularly competitive but she likes to think that someone else might find Frank worth having.
“Shoot the puck you pussy” Frank yells from the couch. Clara rolls another pair of sweat-stained socks. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want anything?” Clara shakes her head. Franks shrugs and heads to the kitchen. He brings her back a tall glass of milk and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. He balances them on the worn arm of the chair and kisses Clara’s forehead. “You need to eat babe”. Clara smiles thin lipped. She hates that pet name.
Clara turns her attention back to the hamper on her lap, expecting Frank to move back to the couch. Instead, he plucks the hamper off her lap and sits at her feet, forcing himself into her vision. He smiles up at her. She is reminded of a puppy begging for table scraps. “I’ve been thinking”, he says. Clara nods, biting back the urge to make a snide comment. “It’s been three years”. Clara nods again. “Maybe we should get married. What do you think?” He looks down bashfully. Clara can’t see his face any more. She only sees a reduced sodium life. She opens her mouth as he looks up again and she is struck by the full forced brilliance of his perfect teeth. “I think I’d like that.”