Her days typically consisted of lounging around outside on the veranda, listening to orchestral music and sipping wine. His days consisted of listening to her, to her incessant, whining voice, droning on and on in what he called “country club gossip”, which was anything pertaining to fancy white linens, flower arrangements, or top shelf spirits. Anything involving a sister who stabbed someone else in the back at Andrea Roach’s birthday party counted as well, causing a massive scene that embarrassed her and her one hundred and thirty-seven invited guests.  

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Once she turned fifty-two years old, she believed that this country club gossip would only get worse. Never mind that she never, in fact, belonged to a country club. Acting white and rich and powerful was plenty to set this repeated argument off, resulting in her pointing fingers at his disgusting tie (who wears something that bright with a darker suit anyway, and with lapels that wide?), and him shaking his head at her nonsense, upset by the whole ordeal. 

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Her wedding anniversary to this peculiar man was approaching. The two of them planned a get-together of sorts with her other rich and white and powerful friends, for September 18th at three o’clock. They had been in love their entire lives, together for over thirty years now, and married for twenty five of them. But they both had their faults. Him with his horrid button collection and refusal to do laundry, her with her barely noticeable quirks and naturally beautiful appearance.  

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Ralph loved Colette as a whole. He loved her quick wit and rich taste, he loved her yen for travel and revulsion for airports, he loved how she was consistently overdressed in an attempt to “outdo” her friends. In his eyes, Colette had not become bitter and a gossip, she had always been this way. He was an emotional man, this was evident at Andrea Roach’s birthday party, Thomas Barkley’s engagement, and Ronald Peterson’s Ferrari’s funeral. In his attendance to all of these events, she noticed how quick he was to spark up an unnecessary conversation with a man who had varyingly different ideals as him or to throw a drink into a woman’s face completely unprompted. At Mr. Peterson’s Ferrari’s funeral, he protested to her that orange juice throwing was “tradition”, and “the crowd loved it, Colette”. Colette knew these claims were false and that he was simply grasping for excuses, but she didn’t care. At the end of the day it didn’t matter to her. He was fifty-four years old. In her eyes, he had not become a dramatic, attention-seeking party boy, he had always been this way. And she loved him regardless. 

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Last night, he packed his bags and dragged them to the front hall.

 

“Ahem,” Ralph said pointedly, trying to reach her as she was seated on a lovely chair purchased from Germany in the next room. Colette pretended to read a novel while her phone actually rested in its cradle, sighing at his efforts to gain her attention.  

 

“Colette.”

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She made a swishing noise to mimic a page turning while scrolling on her phone, looking at the recent news regarding celebrities she had not heard of until five seconds ago.  

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“COLETTE!” He yelled from the front door.  

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“WHAT?!”  The woman yelled back, her eyes on the phone resting in the book.  

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“I’m leaving! For good this time!” He waited for a reaction, for a response from her as she shook her head with a smile. Colette heard a “hrrumph!” from his direction, then the massive front door slamming shut. 

 

She listened patiently for the sound of the polished handle squeaking in defeat, for the sound of Ralph's familiar weighted footsteps. A minute passed, then two.

 

Then a half hour.

 

Glancing at the door, she wondered if her hearing had been shot and she somehow missed Ralph’s triumphant return. Colette set down her phone and book, hands folded in her lap, and begin to stare at the front door. The door stared back at her, full of apologies and polite suggestions that she retire for the night.