Sugar drifted through her home pushing pictures and curios back into place. She settled in front of the large wedding portrait, straining to find in the smiling bride covered in lace and lilies the miserable failure that slouched along at the heels of Oscar Daniels and earned his terrible wrath. She searched the handsome face of the groom with his tight lipped smile and blue tuxedo for a trace she might be able to find in the man who had come to think so little of her.
Beside the portrait, the mirror told her that she had grown sloppy and drab. No wonder Oscar despised her. She worked at forcing a smile onto her face, but could not approach the rosy, sunny, pretty expression she’d worn that day. She pulled back her hair and checked along the hairline, near where the ashtray had grazed her. She examined her hands and legs, checking where he had grabbed her ankles and where he had pinched her flesh. A faint burning sensation drew her eye to the back of her arm, where she found the handprint, the place where he had first slapped and grabbed, growing more vicious with her every twist and squirm.
Sugar tugged her sleeve down over the print but it wouldn’t stay. It inched back up, exposing the evidence. She rubbed at her arm to get the circulation back up. “A sweater will do,” she said.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs and headed back towards the coat closet beside the garage. All of the items hanging in the closet belonged to Oscar. He had his golf jacket, his windbreaker, his fleece, his spare dinner jacket, his hooded sweatshirt, his light beach cover. Sugar had one sweater, a cast-off cardigan from a yard sale that he had bought for her years before for fifty cents. If she took it off before he came home, Sugar could get away with wearing the hooded sweatshirt. If he saw her in it…
As she pulled the sweatshirt onto her arms, taking caring not to aggravate the injured upper arm, she heard a mournful “mew” from the garage. Sugar opened the door that led out into the garage and greeted a scruffy striped cat.
“I don’t know how you get into the garage, kitty. Come on.”
She scooped the cat up and ran her hand across its head. A loud purr rewarded her.
“If Oscar catches you, we’re both toast…but I can’t help it. You’re so cute and so sweet. One bite before you go, cat. Just one.”
She cradled the cat like a baby and escorted it to the pantry, to the can of tuna she had originally earmarked for her own lunch.
