Throughout their lives, women are showered with bouquets of roses on numerous splendid occasions. But men? They’re only given flowers at their funeral. It’s a harsh world for men, as our lives tend to go unappreciated until death. Such was the case as I stood on my front lawn late one night with the end of a shotgun aimed at my chest. Two small azalea plants were grasped in my hands, one in each fist, as I raised my arms in surrender. I pleaded with the man to not do anything “hasty.” My hands trembled as the exposed roots of each plant shook back and forth. Excess dirt first dropped in small thuds upon my shoulders, then sloped down to the wilted grass. I was having an adverse reaction to the adrenaline that was being rapidly pumped through my veins. I felt like I had been jabbed with an IV of scalding hot coffee. My embittered anger toward my wife subsided, briefly. A rage that had scaffolded each day since our wedding. She watched the scene unfold, straight-faced from our second-story bedroom window. My little boy gripped tightly to her hip as he sobbed for his father’s safety. The family I’d created was free-falling into an endless pit of darkness. That’s the thing about dying, though. Fear easily replaces hate when death has arrived at your front doorstep.
Marriages are all about compromise, or so I was told. My first marriage wilted away slowly, like an ignored houseplant in desperate need of water. There’s only so much disregard any man can take before realizing he deserves better. With Marla, our marriage was over after she turned her back on me. I wouldn’t accept her rejection or excuses anymore. It was right after having sex, which should be a routine physical act between a husband and wife, but not for us. No, sex with her was as rare as finding a dollar bill on the sidewalk. It happened occasionally, but I would do all the work. As usual, she lay there like a heavy bag of rocks and didn’t make a single peep of pleasure. When we were first married, it was comparable to pulling a rusty nail from an old oak tree with only a metal fork. It was a long-drawn-out game of will she or won’t she tonight?
After I finished, she lay there on her back while staring up at the popcorn ceiling. She sniffled as she rubbed her crocodile tears away with the back of her hands. Then, for the last time in our marriage, she turned onto her right side. She faced the barren wall and away from my pleading eyes. She was as delicate as a dandelion when we married, yet somehow dodged gusts of wind in life. But after less than two years of marriage, she was unbearably broken as all her seeds parachuted far away.
“Now what’s wrong with you?” I said.
Marla, stiff as a corpse in rigor mortis, let out a hushed, drawn-out sigh. Anger arose from within my bubbling core. It spread throughout my body, like the flames of an unruly campfire engulfing a withered forest. I extended my hand toward her gaunt back, grabbed a bony shoulder, and yanked so she would face me. Her glassy eyes were hollow, lacking any remnants of a once lively soul.
“Answer me,” I said, “What’s your problem?”
Marla quickly stood up and grabbed her wrinkled gray robe off the edge of the bed. She stepped onto the circular maroon rug, which scratched my bare feet. She bought it impulsively at a yard sale, along with other useless junk. After that wasteful shopping spree, I forbade her from using the checkbook without
