He looked at the clock with deep, burning eyes. He waited and waited for the red lines to form 12:00. Only two more minutes until his wish would come true. Only one hundred and twenty seconds until what he waited three years for would happen. He almost felt bad being so direct, so prompt about it, but he was a man with wants and needs. A man with a burning desire he kept hidden for twenty six years. Twenty-six. They were sixteen when they met, when he first gave into devilish thoughts. Thoughts of impure nature, of lust and sweat, of loving until the sun began to peek through the windows. But that was it, they were just thoughts. Now, everything he ever thought would become a reality. A truth he never spoke of.
He looked at the clock. 12:00 a.m. It was the thirtieth of April, their anniversary and his birthday. He turned to his right to face her sweet sleeping face. She looked so peaceful, so calm, he hated to wake her up, but he knew she would laugh. Carefully he placed a hand on her almost bare shoulder and shook her gently.
"Sweetie, wake up." He whispered as though there was someone else there he didn't want to disturb. She didn't even stir. He knew how heavy of a sleeper she was. He tried again, this time harder; she stirred and then mumbled,
"What?"
"Baby, it's April thirtieth. Our third anniversary." She opened her eyes and looked at him, slightly confused. She glanced past him at the clock reading twelve o' one.
"This couldn't wait till the morning? Reilly, it's midnight, I have school and work and you have school and work. We'll celebrate tonight. I mean tomorrow night... you know what I mean."
"Right. But TONIGHT is the three years, and we made that promise to each other..."
"You're kidding? No!" She started to laugh and that was all he wanted; to see her smile.
"You are out of your mind, you know that? I'm in love to a crazy man." She ran her fingers through his jet black hair and put her face an inch from his.
"That was my first mistake." She whispered.
"What?"
"Falling in love." Then she placed her lips delicately on his.
"Happy birthday by the way. But absolutely not. I'm tired, you're tired, it can wait a few more hours." She smiled, kissed him quickly and put her head back on her pillow.
"Please..." He began to beg like a dog.
"NO! I want romance, not spontaneity."
"Spontaneity is romantic," he replied.
"Spontaneity is not romantic. Taking a bath together while drinking wine and listening to soft music is romantic. A walk in the park is romantic. A midnight booty call is NOT romantic."
"Fine. If you want to wait for romance, that's fine." He turned to his side and acted like he was mad.
"Reilly, don't be like that." She went to touch his arm when he grabbed her and began to tickle her side, where she was weakest.
"Stop! Oh, ha, ha, ha, ha!" She squeaked through tears of laughter. Finally he let her go.
"You are something else, you know that?" She said as she moved back to her side of the bed.
"I didn't want you to go to bed mad at me. This whole thing was for a laugh; because all I wanted was to see you smile. If you want to wait another three years, that would be fine. If you wanted to wait the rest of our lives, well I wouldn't be happy about it, but I would be ok with it. No matter what choice you make, I will respect it. Abigail, I love you." He smiled a sincere smile and kissed her hand. She kissed him deeply and laid her head on his shoulder.
"Just make it special." She whispered faintly. He nodded and cuddled next her, while the wheels turned and turned for the perfect evening.
Reilly got up before his alarm so he could check what he had to work with food wise for the evening. The freezer was pretty barren except for a package of pork chops, half a bag of frozen broccoli, and something that at one point was most likely a hot dog but now just looked like a discolored icicle.
Reilly shut the freezer door gently, so not to wake up Abigail. He opened the fridge door and found a slightly better situation, but not much. There was a half gallon of milk, five eggs, a few strawberries, a quarter gallon of orange juice, Abigail's chocolate stash for those "rough times," and some left over's.
He closed the door with a slam that made him cringe and curse under his breath. She remained undisturbed, thankfully. Reilly leaned against the counter to ponder what he would do. He couldn't afford to take her out to dinner, but he couldn't really cook. Just a few things his mom taught him so he could fend for himself. That's when he got the perfect solution to his problem and when Abigail's alarm went off in their room.
Reilly slipped into the bathroom's side door so she wouldn't suspect anything out of place. He wanted her totally surprised, and she would be.
The morning went as usual, coffee, breakfast, quick dress, and a kiss good-bye.
"Love you," Abigail said as she and Reilly parted ways for the day, her going to work and him to school.
"Love you too. I'll see you later." He smiled mockingly at her. She just laughed, started her little boxy car, and drove off.
Reilly could hardly concentrate in his classes that day. When he was suppose to be writing notes on the Enlightenment and the over throw of the French Monarchy, he was writing down things he would need for dinner that night. When he was suppose to be thinking of the symbolism of the word home, he was thinking of Abigail's favorite songs. He knew he would never be able to get this night off right unless he had time to work on everything. If he went to work he would have only two hours to shop for food, cook, fancy the apartment up, and prepare himself. As much as he didn't want to take off from work, to make this perfect, he knew he had to.
As soon as his last class let out, he called work, told them he was having car trouble and was stuck at school. Then he got in his car and drove to the closest grocery store. Thirty-two dollars and forty-five cents later, he was on his way to the perfect evening.
The second he got home he did a time check; he had four and a half hours to cook, find the perfect music, set up the apartment, shower, and change. He breathed slowly through his mouth; the places where his teeth didn't line up made a small whistling sound as he sucked in air.
"Ok, time to do this." He got pans out, oil, milk; eggs, everything he knew he would need, and then he called his mom.
"Hello?" A woman with a Jewish accent answered on the other line.
"Hey mom," Reilly replied.
"Reilly! How nice to hear from you. How are you my sweet heart?" The old woman asked.
"I'm fine. But I'm trying to make dinner for me and Abigail, and..."
"Have no fear! I am here to help. That's very sweet of you, I'm sure Abby..." Reilly cringed upon hearing the shortening of Abigail's name. She hated the shortened version, said it sounded more like a dog's name than a person. Sometimes late at night, after a hard day and they just barely made the bills, Reilly would joke that their first dog would be named Abby. Abigail would laugh and her beautiful smile would light up the room and Reilly's heart. It was moment's like those where he knew just how much he loved her.
"Reilly? Are you still there?" His mother asked on the other line.
"Yeah... sorry. So I was thinking of making the chicken sauce thing with the cream..."
"You mean chicken alfredo with the base sauce?"
"Yes! Can you help me, over the phone?"
"Honey, how did you think I learned?"
The process of making the chicken turned out to be more of a fiasco then he anticipated. The chicken was dried out because he cut it up
before
he put it in the oven. Then while making the sauce from scratch, he splashed a bunch of it on his jeans, the counter, and the cabinets below. The first batch of the sauce had no flavor because he forgot too add the pepper and salt. The only thing that came out fine was the spaghetti. Once it was done and over with, Reilly bided his mom a thank you, a good-bye, and started the next project: their bedroom.
He wasn't sure how many was too many, but he bought a canister of white rose petals that he sprinkled across their freshly made bed. He looked through her CD's and found her favorite romance artist: Beth Orton. He popped her favorite CD in the stereo and put it on standby. Reilly checked the clock, one hour until Abigail would be home. That gave him just enough time to get in the shower, put his nice dress shirt on, and set the table.
Fate had different plans for him though, for nothing in life should be easy. The hot water heater finally gave out and Reilly was forced to take an ice cold shower. When he went to put on his nice shirt, a paper thin, white cotton polo; the nick he had given himself from shaving showed up in a penny sized drop of red toward his torso.
"Damn it," he exclaimed to the wind. One of the buttons popped off leaving an uneven pattern in the buttoning. But there was no time to worry about things like this.
Reilly moved his attention to setting up the table. He set the place for him and Abigail at their small card table. He grabbed the only wine glasses they had and set the bottle between their plates. Then he lit two candles, and waited for her to get home. Twenty minutes of waiting resulted in the familiar sound of her key in the door.
"Reilly, I'm home, and boy did I have the day from he..." She stopped dead in her tracks. Reilly stood in the kitchen entrance, dressed slickly, with the familiar sounds of Beth Orton in the background; dinner on the table.
"Happy Anniversary." He smiled at her. Abigail looked at him in total disbelief, her hands cupped around her mouth, tears welling in her green eyes.
