I always hated our house on the hill. The day after our wedding, in 1946, he sold our house on the beach. MY house on the beach. I barely had my morning coffee when he told me we would spend our honeymoon on the road, in a moving truck. I loved that beachhouse and was willing to fight for it.
Now, sixty years later, we're still here on that house on the hill. Isolated. With a perfect view upon the beautifully coloured beachhouses.
On a certain afternoon, after Eric finished his fifth whiskey, he stumbled into the kitchen where I was preparing his next. With a teaspoon of sugar, as he wished.
He caressed me and said "Donna, we made our lives worth living."
Worth living? I wondered as I tried to kill him with my gaze alone. He spanked me.
"Worth living?!" I blurted out. "What have I done in this worthy life of ours?"
"Cooked, cleaned and fucked?" He answered joyfully.
"Nothing but nurturing. Who's life have I lived?"
He stared at me with glazed, yellow stained eyes as his joyful drunk smile faded.
"You birthed a child Donna, you did your duty."
"As a woman?"
"As a creator." He replied with his sweet baritone voice that erased my hatred.
"Like God?"
He bursted out laughing and yanked the whiskey out of my hands.
"God doesn't have a duty. He has a will." He yelled from the living room.
He sat back down in his favourite red velvet chair.
Suddenly I was reminded of his hunting rifle he kept in the closet.