How a Carolina Reaper plant ended up among the cilantro and onions, Betty wasn’t sure. She must have absent-mindedly grabbed one at the Spanish market last summer.
No matter. Betty loved it all the same. She had watched it grow from seedling to sprout to maturity, bearing the red peppers everyone feared. This morning, she would use the plant one last time.
Betty put on some gloves and took out her chopping knife. The trick was cutting them thin enough. It would take some time, but time was all she had since quitting her bank job yesterday.
“Not again. How many times we gotta hash through this?” John’s voice echoed across her thoughts from weeks earlier. “You’re too old to quit. If you think I’m gonna support you, not a chance.”
I never once asked for his support.
When she was younger, the idea of a husband-and-wife union didn’t seem so far-fetched. Marriage meant teamwork.
Betty shook her head.
“Thin slices, thin slices,” she whispered.
John hadn’t always been miserable. Before Amanda was born, before they had grown tired of life and each other, John promised excitement. How quickly things change when life falls into a routine. When the routine falls flat. When existence falls into question.
She glanced at her suitcase. A blue sketchbook peeked from the side pocket. It was a start. She would get more, in time.
Sizzling from the egg pan filled the early morning. Betty added the chopped bacon.
Amanda loved eggs. Betty still made them for her when she visited. Those were good days. Days with purpose. Now, most breakfasts consisted of John and herself, eating in the predictable fashion of silence.
Her bank job hadn’t been any better. Customer after customer wondering about fees.
Why can’t they pay attention when those fees are first explained? “We’ll fix that for you, Mr. Peabody,” she told them with a plastered smile.
“Betty, you gotta get them in and out,” the assistant manager later said.
Yes, Mr. Purple People Eater. Another ear-to-ear smile.
Day in and day out. “Yes sir, right away sir.”
After 53 years on the planet, her life was nothing more than an endless treachery of mind-boggling dullness.
Then, John started throwing out her old stuff. “Too much junk,” he complained, trying to juggle the boxes from Amanda’s bedroom. Instead, the top box hit the side of the door and fell.
“Damn-it,” he yelled, before stomping out of the house.
Betty bent down to help and found an old beach scene of hers painted some thirty years ago. A simple sunset symbolizing the end of day, or, later in life, the beginning of something new. Views changed as people changed.
Why had she ever stopped painting anyway?
“Wasting your time,” John told her that day on the beach. “You’ll never be an artist.”
And so, she wasn’t.
Betty stared at the painting until he came and grabbed it. Didn’t matter. The seed had been re-planted.
She snatched the peppers and threw them on the eggs. Then, she took off her gloves and washed her hands. Stepping to the fridge, she took the milk out and placed it on top. John was short. He’d have to get the stepladder from the garage.
Betty sprinkled the cheese and turned the stove off.
“Is it ready?” John called from the stairwell.
“Yes,” she told him. She scooped the food onto his plate and set it on the table with some OJ.
“Can you ever be on time with breakfast?” he said, coming into the kitchen.
Betty gritted her teeth. “Sorry John. I’m slow.”
He huffed. “Among other things.” He pushed his glasses against his face. “What’s this?”
“Eggs, bacon, cheese and tomatoes.”
“Where’s the hot sauce?
“Don’t have any.”
“Wonderful, another bland, Betty breakfast.” He sneered.
Betty reached for her jacket. She waited for him to take a bite. “We need to talk,” she said. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I quit the bank.”
His fork stopped mid-stab. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
She walked to the door with her suitcase in tow.
“We discussed this already. You can’t get another job at your age.” His brow furrowed. “You’re not gonna take my money if that’s your plan. Leech!”
“And that’s why I’m leaving you.” She took a breath. “I can’t stand being married to you anymore. I kept my trap shut for too long. Amanda’s gone and now so am I from this suppressive life. I … I want to be an artist.” Her back straightened. “I want to paint again. I want to travel, to visit Amanda.”
“No, you—”
“Shut-up!” One free hand curled into a fist. “You’ve stood in my way for too long. Keep the house. I don’t need it. Good-bye.”
“Hahaha.” He stood up. The light from the kitchen fixture gleamed off his bald head. “You’ll be …”
Betty’s heart leaped to her throat.
John’s eyes watered. Slowly, she heard it, a slow gurgling sound. It came from his stomach. His throat. His hands flew to his mouth. “What. Is. This?”
Betty laughed. “You said you liked spicy. Can’t take a little heat?”
John ran over to the faucet wagging his tongue and lapped down the sink water.
“No use, won’t help.” She nodded to the fridge. “Milk is the only thing that’ll stop the heat from Carolina Reapers.”
She laughed again. “Thank you, John. This has truly made my day.”
With one final slam, Betty shut the door and started toward the bus stop. Clanks emanated from the garage, presumably from John’s frantic search for the stepladder.
But she didn’t stop, not until she reached the end of the driveway.
There, Betty paused.
The smell of newly bloomed gladiolus filled the air. Their stems, standing tall and strong against the spring wind.
INSTANT NOODLES 