It had to be perfect. She had been planning it for months, meticulously. Every detail had been gone over in her mind again and again. This was perfectly normal for her to plan everything down to the last detail. Every holiday, she drew and wrote elaborate plans for every room in the house, careful not to overdecorate. Every meal was planned two weeks in advance. Meticulous grocery lists were made and checked and double checked. Exact proportions and careful preparation meant that there were rarely leftovers and few dishes to wash after the meal. She wrote a cleaning schedule, which she adhered to regularly. The house was always in immaculate condition. Every article of clothing was neatly pressed.
She made sure that she always looked nice for him. Her dresses were always neatly pressed. Her hair was always immaculate and her makeup always just right--a light rosy blush just the way he said he liked it. She made sure that his clothes were always ironed and lightly starched. Each item of clothing was meticulously hung by color, light to dark, so that things were easy to find in the closet. Every evening, she chose a suit for her husband and hung it in the bathroom, complete with matching socks which were organized in his drawers in a system only she understood. The coffee was made meticulously every morning as she precisely measured the water using its meniscus and balancing it with carefully leveled spoonfuls of ground coffee, all brewed for exactly the same amount of time every day. She wanted it to be perfect. She wanted to be the perfect wife.
Planning this, however, was a little bit different. She was never very good at keeping secrets, and her husband had a knack for guessing surprises. It seemed like every time she planned a surprise, he was already aware; though he always appeared gracious, happy that his perfect little wife had been thoughtful. And he always found some fault, she recalled. It might be the color of the decoration, or the way it was hung, and he said it in such a nice way that it made her even angrier. “Wow, honey,” he would say. “This is so nice. Having that picture framed was such a great idea. I'll straighten it out later.” Once, he commented on her decorating. “Such a surprise! And so colorful, like a print shirt. It's nice to get away from the dull gray walls for a change.” She stewed, but said nothing. So close to perfection, but never quite there. She would try even harder.
This time, she would have to be very careful to keep him from figuring out what was going on. She even planned a few ways to confuse him, to keep him off the scent. Now, as the time to put the whole plan into action came closer, she went over it again and again her mind like a melody that gets stuck in the brain and can be released only when it is sung out loud. She knew that she was obsessing--that was what the psychiatrists called it--but she could not help it. Everything had to be perfect. There could be no mistakes. One mistake would ruin it. She knew that she would be released from her obsessive thoughts only after everything was done and the surprise was given and everyone was smiling. Her life was a routine, and it gave her freedom. She could dream because she knew exactly what to expect of every day. Her life was being the perfect wife.
Her husband would be home soon, and she rushed to get everything ready. She put a clean table cloth on the table, but realized it was furrowed. Quickly, she grabbed the iron and pressed the tablecloth where it lay, smoothing out the wrinkles. This put her behind her time, and she hurried to make up the lost minutes by quickly setting the table for two. She made sure the cutlery was exactly parallel and equidistant. She made sure the the wine glasses were properly placed. In smaller glasses, she poured ice cold water from a pitcher, carefully avoiding dripping on the table. She checked the time.
She put fresh flowers in her most ornate vase, which was subsequently placed on the table. To make sure that it was exactly centered, she brought out the yardstick that she kept tucked between the refrigerator and the counter, carefully measuring the distance from both directions. Satisfied, she checked on dinner. She gave the sauce a gentle stir. She checked the time again.
Her husband was never home at exactly the same time every day, so it was hard for her to know precisely when to expect him. Unlike her, he had no fascination with time or detail. His stoic personality often clashed with her mercurial personality. If she wanted to go out, simply because it was Wednesday, he wanted to stay in. More often that not, however, he indulged her, but hardly said a word while they were out. When he wanted to go out, she wanted to stay in because it was Friday and because that was what they were supposed to do that day.
She checked the time again. He was late. She began to sweat. The ice in the water glasses began to melt, and she emptied them back into the pitcher and added more ice. “Where is he?” she asked herself. “Everything has to be perfect.”
It was only then that she realized she had forgotten to dress for dinner. She raced into the bedroom and put on the low cut dress he had bought for her last week. She brushed her hair and touched up her make up. She slipped off her flats and pulled on a pair of high heels. He always liked seeing her in high heels. She wanted to be a good wife. She wanted everything to be perfect.
Finally, she heard his car in the drive. He was almost half an hour late. She filled the water glasses again and made sure everything was in order. Quickly, she put the last seasoning on the pork chops that she would shortly serve him. She left hers unseasoned. She had planned the recipe so carefully. It was a new recipe, and she did not dare to try it, so she did not know how it was going to taste. She hoped it would like it. She hoped he would eat it all.
She buried the seasoning packet deep in the trash can, covering it with the butcher paper the chops had been wrapped in. She smoothed her dress and stirred the rice.
“Hello, dear,” he said as he walked through the front door. “I am sorry to be late, but I have good reason.”
“No matter,” she said, kissing him on the cheek for what she hoped would be the last time, “come and sit. Happy anniversary!” She took his coat and hung it in the closet exactly where she always hung it. “Do you want your slippers?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Why don't you put dinner on the table. I will go wash up.”
So far, everything was going as she planned. She put some rice on her plate, meticulously scraping it into a small mound, each grain finding its perfect place. She put some sauce on the rice. Next to it she placed three pieces of steamed asparagus, the ends cut at a perfect angle. Then carefully, with a clean spatula, she placed an unseasoned chop on top of her rice. She repeated the process for her husband, except she gave him more asparagus and extra sauce and two seasoned chops, which she lifted with a pair of tongs.
Her heart raced. What would he think of the new recipe? Pork chops were his favorite, and though they were costly, she wanted to do something very special for their anniversary. Would he scold her for buying them? That would be just like him, to turn the tables on her and find something to criticize in her quest for perfection. But why? She tried so hard to be perfect. Couldn't he just let her have that--once? The heat of the kitchen was stifling, and she realized she was sweating. She opened the small window above the sink to let in some cool autumn air. She heard him shuffling around in the next room.
“Honey,” she called to him, “let's not let your dinner get cold.”
“I'll be there soon,” he called.
She thought about what was to come at dinner and afterward. She thought about the two of them laughing over their meal, drinking too much wine. He will complain of a headache, and perhaps, she predicted, some indigestion. “It must the spices you put on those chops,” he will say. How correct he will be. She will help him to the bedroom because he will be too dizzy to make it himself.
“Come and lie down, dear” she will say, and help him into bed. She will remove his shoes as his stomach begins to turn and his breathing becomes labored. He will flush red. Perhaps he will turn blue. She read that sometimes happens. In a few minutes, he will have a seizure, lose consciousness, and then it will all be over. She will have executed the plan to perfection.
Her husband came into the room. He had removed his tie, but he still had on his coat. Dutifully, hastily, she opened the wine and poured half a glass for each, making sure that each glass had exactly the same amount.
“Before we eat, I have a little surprise for you,” he said. “Come over here.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box. She opened the box and found inside a metal chain with a locket. Opening the locket, she saw a small photo--the one she had framed years before and hung so carefully and crookedly on the wall. “Happy anniversary,” he said, smiling.
“Is this why you were late?” she asked. He nodded.
““Let me put it on.”
As she turned her back to him, she felt a momentary flash of guilt for what she was about to do. He kissed her cheek and carefully placed the chain around her neck. He fumbled a moment with the clasp before tightening his grip and pulling the chain tightly against her neck and twisting.
In her surprise, she did not struggle. Rather, she gasped and choked. Instinctively, her hands went to her throat, trying to get her fingers underneath the chain that gradually tightened around her neck. But it was too late. He gripped the chain more tightly and squeezed. She felt her breath slowly leave her body, and the room began to darken. As she faltered, she could hear his voice hissing in her ear.
“I hate you. I hate your obsessions and your constant striving to please me. I hate that you never make mistakes. I hate you for being perfect all the time. I hate you for being the perfect wife. I hate you for--” and she heard no more.
