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In another life, Tequila thought, he might have been a bard.
There was something oddly poetic about the way the pale moonlight filtered through the dirty glass pane of the kitchen window, about the way it draped over the worn oak of the table like a silken cloth. Dust particles were suspended in the beam, dancing like fireflies every time he breathed. The light clustered around the tumbler near his hand, caught by the thick glass and the last ounces of golden whiskey inside that he couldn’t bring himself to finish, and painted halo-like reflections onto the wood grain. In another life, he might have grabbed a pen and written it down. Would have given him something to do, at least. He sighed, exhausted.
He’d hoped the alcohol would help him sleep. As usual, he’d been disappointed. The restlessness sat deep within his veins, pumping through him with every heartbeat. If he focused, he could almost hear the gears turning inside him; like parts of an infernal machine, artificially planted inside his chest. Every contraction of his heart the turn of a cylinder, every gush of blood the movement of cogs gripping into each other, clicking along as they turned – cock the gun, aim, fire, reload, repeat.
It felt stronger on full moon nights like these, but that could be his imagination. On full moon nights like these, he was reduced to sitting alone in the kitchen at night, trying not to wake the wife and the little one, nursing a single glass of whiskey for hours on end, and staring out the window until either sleep overwhelmed him or he watched the sun rise.
Over on the other side of the dusty pane, past the window sill and the porch, he could barely make out the street lamps of the town in the distance. The sight always brought him comfort. It was a promise of a world outside the confines of his home, of civilization just beyond the border of familiarity. Where he’d grown up, he’d always been surrounded by impenetrable darkness on all sides when the sun sank beneath the horizon. His mother always said she liked the isolation, but for him it had felt more and more like a prison the older he got. He wondered if that was on purpose.
His ear picked up the sound of movement from the hall a split second before the reflection in the window gave her away.
She moved almost silently, only the tip of her tail produced a soft whisper as it lazily dragged across the floor boards. The old wood of the third kitchen chair creaked as she slowly gathered her nightgown and gracefully sat down opposite to him. Tequila glanced up from his musings. One look at her told him she was tired, and his heart sank.
“Did I wake you?”, he asked, his voice rough from hours of sitting in silence. Marigold closed her eyes and shook her head.
“ ‘m sorry”, Tequila murmured nevertheless.
She followed his gaze out of the window for a few seconds, then he could see her turn her head and look at him instead.
“What’s wrong, baby?”, she asked quietly “What’s keepin’ you awake?”
He sighed, long and deep from within his lungs. She had that tone in her voice, that special gentleness that made it impossible to close up on her. It had been a while since she’d used it on him. Usually it was reserved for their son.
“The usual”, he replied, defeated, and he didn’t have to look at her face to know the expression that would glide over it like a fish through still water. Her eyebrows would lift and her ears would droop, her amber eyes shimmer and her rosy lips open as her whole face softened with empathy. It took Tequila all he had not to wince. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that she still managed to muster this much empathy, even though he knew how much she hated the Colt and what it had done to him.
Mari’s face turned towards the nightly landscape again: “It’s worse on a full moon, ain’t it?”
Tequila just nodded.
Now that she wasn’t looking at him, he felt able to face her. He watched the blue beams of moonlight flow around her antlers and she slowly and thoughtfully shook her head again. A bitter note played around her lips: “I can’t believe you haven’t burned that thing yet.”
It was a rhetorical question, but Tequila couldn’t help the heavy pang of guilt that pervaded him at her words. His eyes found the glass and the grain again.
“You know it doesn’t work”, he answered, “You burn the gun, it’s back in the box. You burn the box, it shows up where you least expect it. ‘m not takin’ that risk. Not with Dom around.”
Mari sighed: “I know. I know.”
“I don’t want him to end up like me”
She was astute. Observational. Smart and witty. Funny, and emotionally intelligent. Mature. That’s why he married her. He knew the conversation would always find its way back to him, he would never be able to avoid it. Mari was too caring to let it go. Yet still, when she turned her eyes back on him and said: “That’s why you haven’t left yet, ain’t it?”, it was like pulling a rug out from underneath his feet.
He swallowed thickly and hung his head low over the table. He didn’t need to confirm or deny. It was an observation, not a question. She knew him too well.
“We talked about this, Mari”, he quietly pleaded in one last ditch effort to avoid a painful conversation, but she just nodded. Acknowledging that yes, we did talk about this. No, it won’t save you from talking about it again.
She turned on her chair, the thin fabric of her nightgown softly rustling in the silence. He could hear the tip of her tail brush over the ground rhythmically now – left, right, left, right. Something’s on her mind. Planting her elbows on the table, she leaned forward and clasped her hands together, playing with the ring.
“I just can’t bear to see you miserable, baby”
“I’m not miserable, Mari”
“Yes, you are. I can see it in the way you sit here every night and stare out of that window.”
There was no bite behind her words, just a quiet sadness. Tequila breathed out, closing his eyes to block out the blue moonlight. He had to push through a heavy, thick lump in his throat when he continued whispering: “I’m trying. I told you I’d be trying, and I promise I am. For you, and for him.”
He didn’t want to hear the reply, but it came nevertheless – quietly, hesitantly, yet with conviction and a hint of grief. The most beautiful assassin, delivering the most devastating poison:
“...maybe it’s time to stop trying.”
Tequila did his best to stay strong, to not visibly deflate, but it was like all the strength left his body, leaving it a husk of his former self. He sunk his face into his hands, trying to hide the pain on his face, the shame burning like gall in his throat, the guilt of knowing that she was right but refusing to accept it. Thoughts roiled and turmoiled in his head, defiance and heartbreak and failure. He needed a minute to collect himself. She waited, always patient with him.
“I just...”, he started, swallowed, then tried again: “I just don’t want to be yet another deadbeat dad.” The words punched themselves out of his throat and climbed around clenched teeth. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, desperately trying to keep down the emotion. “I’m not gonna do that to you, Mari. I’m not gonna do that to him.”
She reached out and put her hand on his arm. The warmth of her skin seeped reassuringly through his fur, and he managed to remove one of his hands from his face to cover her fingers with his own.
“It’ll be different”, Mari continued. “Dom’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay. You’re gonna visit” It’s a demand. “And he’s not gonna have a dragon of a mother who’ll blame him for everything that ever happened in the world.” Mari squeezed his arm, and Tequila had to repress a dry chuckle. “I’m gonna take care of him.”
Tequila lifted his head and guided Marigold’s hand to his lips, thoughtfully touching. Finally, he glanced up out of swimming eyes and met hers, equally glistening. “How... am I the only one still fightin’ tooth and nail?”
Her expression saddened, and she turned her hand in his grasp to cup his cheek. Her eyes still bore the same loving gaze from all those years ago, but it had become mournful. She glanced down, and Tequila was unsure if she was avoiding his eyes or trying to hide a tearful blink. “I always wanted to be a good wife to you”, she started. Glancing back up again, a bittersweet smile played around her lips: “I wanted to make you happy. But... I don’t think that I am what you need.” Her thumb gently brushed his cheek, and only the wetness in its wake made him aware that he had failed to stop the tears. “I’ve realized that a long time ago. And... I think deep down, you did too. You just need a little help admitting it.”
In the dejection of the moment, he couldn’t help but let out a choked-up laugh: “What am I gonna do without you. My little kick in the butt.” He wiped his eyes, then pressed his fingers to his lips and stared at the table.
“You’ll do just fine” Her fingers gave his cheek two gentle pats before retracting. Out of the corner of his eyes, Tequila caught her wiping her own face.
Her fingers then drifted into her hair, playing with the auburn strands of the ponytail that hung over her shoulder. She usually forgot to remove the hairband before bed, resulting in a lot of tangled hair and cursing in the bathroom the next morning. Now, it served as a way to keep her hands busy while she looked out of the window into the night again. This was not all.
He didn’t dare to ask, too fearful of the next gut punch. She was going for his life boats, one by one. The few rocks in the stormy sea that he kept desperately clinging to, no matter how rough the stony cliffs dug into his skin, no matter how painful it was to be raked over their surface by the waves again and again.
“...you told me you don’t want Dom growing up without a father figure”, Mari eventually spoke up. Tequila just quietly nodded. She then continued: “Yeah, me neither.” Silence, heavy with implication.
She pressed her lips together and twisted her fingers into her hair, still looking out the window; then she continued: “I... I’ve met someone.”
There it was.
This time, he wasn’t strong enough to stay upright, and as his head and shoulders sank low, he saw her close her eyes as if bracing for something. But he wouldn’t be angry with her. He couldn’t. Not while seeing her this open, this vulnerable; sharing with him what she thought would be the best for both of them. Not while knowing that while his body language and all the pain inside of him could be easily mistaken for grief, months later he would look back and recognize it as relief.
In the end, after opening and closing his mouth countless times, he only managed a weak nod in reply. Luckily, it seemed to get the message across. Mari relaxed a bit. Nervousness calmed, she let go of her hair and placed her hands on the table again, watching her fingertips as she slowly traced a knot in the wood grain. “He works at the carpentry next to the shop... I’ve known him for a year or so but we didn’t really interact until recently. He did the new shelves. His name is Benjamin.”
Tequila managed another nod, then forced himself to swallow down the lump in his throat: “He’s from outside the community?”
Mari nodded: “I think it would be a good influence.”
“Yeah”, Tequila breathed shakily.
“He’s kind. The quiet sort” She briefly glanced over to him, “Good with kids”
“You seem to like those”
She smiled: “I do.”
He followed her gaze to her hands, the way the blue light drifted around her slender fingers and illuminated the tufts of downy fur. The reflection of the window in the metal of the ring, and the deep blue square of the unknown in its center. Click went the cylinder of his heart, deafeningly loud in the silence.
“What about you?”, the only sound his raspy voice managed was a pained whisper: “Are you going to be happy?”
Her smile wavered a little. It would never lose that sadness to it again, Tequila thought. The heartbreak had burrowed inside her soul and fundamentally broken something that could never be completely mended again. He hated himself for being responsible. Despite trying so hard, all he ever managed to do was more damage. Maybe there truly was a curse on his bloodline. Or maybe his mother was right all along.
“I don’t know”, Mari answered him earnestly. “But it wouldn’t be your responsibility anymore.” She leaned forward and sought out his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I have this home, my family, a town full of friends, the shop’s running well... I’ll have our beautiful son...” She looked forlornly out of the window and shrugged with one shoulder “Maybe it’ll be good for me.” She wet her lips before she added: “And if it isn’t....”, but left the sentence incomplete; open for interpretation.
At this point, Tequila could clearly feel the fur on his cheeks cling to his skin, heavy with silent tears. He reached out for her hand, like a drowning man would reach for land, and gently cradled it, as if he could break it with one sharp movement. He let his thumb run over her palm, feeling her warmth, every subtle variation in texture.
“You know I love you, right?”, he asked thickly.
Another bittersweet smile crossed her lips: “I do” She leaned into the touch, then turned her wrist and started softly lacing their fingers together. Tequila was drawn in by her gravitation, drifting towards her, curling in on himself as he leaned over the table. She expected him, embraced him, until their heads leaned together. “But I also know that you don’t love me the way I want you to love me.”
Tequila closed his eyes and quietly wept.
They held each other, hands tangled, foreheads touching. Tequila’s hand found its way to Marigold’s face, wiping away the tears that she now let freely roll, and she grasped his wrist as if it was the only thing steady enough to keep her together. For all this time, she had managed to keep a tight control on her voice, but now he heard it shake with every breathy inhale. “We’re not good for each other, baby”, she whispered desperately, and this time it was Tequila’s turn to mournfully reply: “I know”, while the ocean he was drowning in slowly soaked into his beard.
In the dead of night, blue moonlight cascaded over their bodies, tangled in horns and hair and caught in glistening drops that fell onto the table below. Deep down, Tequila already knew it, but only in hindsight would he be able to come to terms with the fact that a decision had been made right then and there. Outside the window, wind blew over the porch and rustled the wine stalks. The stars glimmered in the open sky, barely distinguishable from the lights of the town in the distance. Click went the cylinder in his heart.
When Mari eventually drew back, it felt like an eternity had passed. She sniffled, trying to compose herself, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. The other one Tequila still held in his grasp, and refused to let go for a moment longer.
“You’ve always been smarter than me”, he murmured, and before she could protest – because he knew she would – he continued on: “And I know I don’t deserve you.” He guided her hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist. Mari smiled, then gently pulled away as she rose and stepped around the table. Her hand slid up his arm and onto his shoulder, fingers brushing over his nape. She softly shook her head: “No. But not in the way you think.” She leaned down to press a kiss on his head, right in the space where her head fit perfectly between his horns. “You deserve better than me. You deserve closure.” He turned to her, mouth open to protest, but she silenced it with another kiss – a proper one this time. It was soft and delicate, their lips barely even touched, before she murmured against them her final plea: “Think about it.”
“I will”, he murmured back. The kiss felt like cutting the rope off an anchor.
“Goodnight, baby” Marigold pulled the nightgown tighter around her shoulders and stepped across the floorboards, vanishing as soundlessly as she arrived. Only the faintest noise of the bedroom door falling into lock gave away her final position.
Tequila sat in front of the kitchen window, alone and in silence, staring out at the nightly landscape. The bright silver disk of the moon had passed its zenith, and the hours until dawn were numbered. He longed to move, to follow Mari into the bedroom, where it smelled like pillows and fur, and curl up under the blanket, fleeing into the warmth of her embrace, because he knew it was waiting for him. Always waiting for him. Another part of him wanted to sneak into Dom’s room, just to hold him close and tell him that he would never ever forget or abandon him, that he loved him more than anything else in the world. A dozen voices screaming in pain, tearing his soul into different directions.
Tequila reached for the tumbler on the table and finished the whiskey.