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The
Injustices of Equality
by Melissa Asher Daniels Renaldo concentrated on his croissant, breaking off thin layers from the flaky golden crust, only to dunk them into a gelatin pool of blackberry, while his wife Denise blabbered without pause about her latest publication. "Darling, it's simply marvelous. Just think a full length feature article of my very own. Isn't it wonderful?" Silence. "Do you know how many people, let me rephrase that, do you know how many women's lives will be forever changed by my article? At the heart of this matter dear is us. You and I. Men and women. And most of all, how we-" "Do we have any more fruit?" ". . . connect. You know, outside of sex. Like how we can be useful to one another now that I don't need your protection, and you don't need me to mother you." "I thought you got some yesterday. Didn't you get the coupons I clipped for you?" "Women are in control of their own lives. We decide if and when we will have children, marry, separate, or divorce. We can pump gas, and cook a five course meal all before seven-thanks to the microwave." "I remember, I told you it was on sale. I told you to get some." "And everybody knows this. They respect this. But you know who still suffers, women like my mother. Now there's a woman who doesn't even know she has a ..." "Denise, I really wanted cantaloupe." "Did I ever tell you what a selfish sonofabitch my father was? My mother took care of him. She cooked cabbage, cornbread, and curry chicken every Tuesday for thirty-five years. And all he ever managed to say was, "Not so much curry on the chicken Maureen." Renaldo looked down at his plate. He glared at the empty spot next to the stale butt of his bread. "It woulda been nice to have something different for a change, something kinda sweet." ". . . and she washed his piss stained BVD's too, and in the bathroom sink at that, she ironed his two dollar work shirts, she plucked away the wiry hair that grew in his ears, nostrils, and other dark and unknown places, she ran his bathwater, carefully making sure that she dropped exactly two cups of Epsom salt into it, and never, not once did I ever hear her shout his name out at night behind the bedroom door." Renaldo looked over at his wife's plate, now cold. She hadn't touched her food. She never did when he made it. "Eat your breakfast dear." "Oh honey I'm not hungry. I'm so excited about my article that I just can't eat." Renaldo pushed his chair away from the table, picked up his plate, and walked kind of hunched over towards his wife. Carefully he covered her croissant in saran wrap. He picked up her plate, touched her hand, and whispered into her ear, "Take it to work with you dear." |
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