Escape From Bridezillia. Jacqueline deMontravel

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in some sort of face-off, about to have it out. Perhaps their combative poses were made because Henry was still in the doghouse.

      “Just working on a commission.”

      “Really,” he mused. “And this is all before 9:00 AM,” he added, looking to the microwave clock that flashed 8:44 AM. “I must say that I’m impressed.”

      I tore off a sheet and added it to my pile of rejects with an attempt at another sketch, but became annoyed with the mess I kept adding to. Neatly stacking up the scraps of my work, I gathered the papers and walked over to the trash, which was burping up garbage. Lining the top of the bin with the heavy vellum paper, I pushed down the garbage like a compressor.

      Feeling Henry’s gaze, I turned to him, only to be under the scrutiny of his bemused smirk, which was exhilarating in a sexual context but now just added to my annoyance.

      “You know, Em. A new place will be ideal for your painting. This realtor at the Gallagher Group described to me this promising loft on Grand Street. ‘Stunning! Duplex! Balcony! Sun-flooded!’” he exploded. “Sounds ideal. And enough room for a studio so you can paint properly. With a real disposal system,” he laughed, right as my head was about to free-fall into our garbage.

      I stood up, wiping a strand of hair behind my ear. The idea of a “sun-flooded” loft did have considerable appeal. I pictured myself with an eight-foot canvas and little brush stemming from my hand like a wand. Wearing black capris and ballet shoes in that Lee Krasner fifties artist chic sort of style. Always picturing my outfits with the setting.

      Henry seated himself at the table, lifting up the box of cereal to give Tony’s mug a closer inspection. I situated a bowl and spoon on his place mat, vaguely registering how our habits resembled that of an old married couple with battery-operated ears.

      “Frosted Flakes?”

      Henry preferred the kind of bird-feed cereal you found at a store where the tattoo-fingered cashiers have medical degrees, assuming he’d start his day off sensibly, when really the nutrition facts were almost identical to Frosted Flakes unless you had a need for fiber, low sugar, and iron (something I’ve already researched). Essentially, you needed about ten bowls of either cereal to get all of the vitamins and nutrients you need, and Henry wasn’t that hungry in the morning, but I could eat ten bowls of cereal any time of the day (something I’ve been known to do). We also rarely shopped at grocery stores, preferring the charm and unprocessed foods of specialty markets.

      “Since when did we start eating Frosted Flakes, Em?”

      “I must have made a mistake at the store,” I said without meeting his eye. Not that I was ashamed of my sugary eating habit, I just couldn’t have him think that I’ve fallen for commercial marketing.

      Pouring his bowl, Henry discovered the damn IQ test on the back of the box. The wrinkle of his brow and affected looks of pondering into the air indicated that he had found something redeemable in the kid-brand food.

      Repositioning the box so he could read the answers on the side panel, I paid particular attention while he tallied up his answers. Henry then applauded to himself while reading the box.

      “This stuff is a joke!”

      Oh, please.

      “Now how can we expect to further advance the intelligence of this country’s youth and, to use Kellogg’s words, ‘Jump-Start Your Brain’ when this is about as simple and useless as a game of tic-tac-toe!”

      Good thing I didn’t circle my answers on the box.

      “Tic-tac-toe!” he echoed.

      “Yes, tic-tac-toe. Speaking of which, the painting I’m working on is for my mother.”

      I broke Henry’s interest from that demoralizing cereal box.

      “Your mother?”

      “Yes. Quite amusing, really. You see, she wants me to paint a portrait. Of us! A wedding portrait to maintain some family tradition that keeps the divorce rate down because it would depreciate the value of some expensively commissioned pieces.”

      “You and me? A wedding portrait? Commissioned by your mother?”

      For a boy who just scored in the leading percentile of our nation’s population, he appeared to be a bit of an imbecile.

      “I promise not to inconvenience you in any way—your time—and we only have to hang the picture whenever my mom comes to visit. Which I promise will be infrequently.”

      Infrequently for certain, otherwise Henry and I will break a long-standing family tradition where I’ll be the first (but not necessarily the first deserved) Briggs member to have a divorce.

      “No. Of course I don’t see this as an inconvenience. It’s just so incredibly Edith Wharton of your mother to come up with such an idea.”

      Henry laughed, spooning some soggy flakes into his mouth that, I acutely observed, seemed to be giving him energy despite the fact that they weren’t as smart as his regular flakes. They’re all just flakes, I again assumed.

      Henry looked to the microwave clock, which set him to frantic mode as he dashed from the table to take a shower, mumbling something about a godforsaken meeting that had to be scheduled for the absurd time of 10:00 AM. Henry was not a good performer in the morning, despite his high IQ as evidenced by the Frosted Flakes intelligence test. Not that I was particularly hung up on my poor score. I mean, what did the Mesopotamians know about art, color, or the fall collections? And look what happened to Mesopotamia—you don’t see us driving cars or warming our homes from discoveries made by their society. Hmm. Then again? Oh, forget it.

      I cleared away Henry’s breakfast, washed up the dishes, and gave the counters their sixth coat of Windex for the morning. Tying the strings of the garbage, Henry gave me his departing words from the doorway, reminding me that we’d meet up with the realtor at the apartment on Grand Street and that he’d e-mail me the list of our afternoon appointments.

      Seeing Henry off with an incomplete wave as he already left a miasma of dust in his hasty exit, I looked at the kitchen and then lifted my hands to inspect them. I had just cleaned up after my fiancé, and I couldn’t say that I liked it.

      4

      The timing of Henry’s proposal and my decision to focus on my art may have been sabotage. Wedding duties or paint? When you have a To Do list as long as my 1982 Christmas letter to Santa. (I stopped writing to Santa about a decade ago. Okay, last year.) The Christmas of ’82 had a particularly detailed list, as scratch-and-sniff stickers, collecting animals that clipped onto your bookbag, baseball hats with horns sprouting from the cap, and anything rainbow or unicorn were all the rage.

      The refrigerator seemed to be a good place to begin. I needed food for nourishment. Opening the freezer door, I felt the chill of Henry’s sly sense of humor. Carmenia’s butt, now wrinkled from being salvaged from the trash, had “Butt Patrol” written on it and was taped to the carton of Ben & Jerry’s.

      Despondent and starving, I began wedding To Dos.

      Dress

      Location

      Registries

      Invitations

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