Newlyweds

A short story

Photo by Bill Adler

Day Eleven

Cyrus Bloom rolled onto his back, exhausted, joyful, fulfilled, and tingling. He kissed Vernika’s soft lips, and she kissed him back. He entwined his fingers with hers and said, “That was wonderful. More wonderful now that we’re married.”

As they lay together on the bed, the slow-moving ceiling fan cooled them with a soft breeze that evaporated the sweat from their naked bodies. A gentle wave of goosebumps cascaded over them. 

Vernika Bloom smiled. “For me, too, my love. It’s hard to believe we met ten days ago, and now we’re married. I was nervous about that. I thought—”

“That it was too soon. Who marries after knowing somebody after only a week and a half?”

“We do, because I’ve never been so in love.”

“Nothing has ever felt so right.” Cyrus chuckled. I think we set a world record for going from meeting to marriage.”

Cyrus and Vernika had met at Souls Drinkery, a bar on the corner of Bourbon and Bienville Streets in New Orleans’ French Quarter, where Cyrus lived. Vernika was on the second to last night of her solo vacation from Estonia. She liked traveling alone because she could wake up when she wanted, go where she wanted, and not have to worry about anyone else’s interests. She had visited New York City, Las Vegas, Seattle, and Miami. New Orleans, a place she’d heard so much about, was the last stop on her itinerary. Vernika was twenty-nine; Cyrus twenty-eight. 

One night led to another and another and another, and then to a wedding at city hall. Vernika said she’d arrange for her meager possessions—mostly clothes, some jewelry, and antiques—to be shipped to America, but for now, the clothes in her suitcase would be sufficient. 

“I love you,” Vernika said.

Her East European accent was a rhapsody of Mozart, Beyoncé, and Judy Garland. 

Cyrus glanced toward the night table where he kept his phone, but it wasn’t there because he’d left it in his pants pocket, and he had left his pants in the front hallway, where Vernika had also left her clothes. He wasn’t sure if it was 10 p.m. or 3 a.m., but whatever time it was, he could sleep as long as he was beside Vernika. 

Day Thirteen

Vernika held Cyrus' black socks between her thumb and forefinger, her arm fully outstretched as if they were poisonous. She stood stiffly three feet from the stove. 

Cyrus was cooking an omelet for breakfast.

“I know I just moved in,” Vernika said over the pan’s sizzling, “but this is the second night in a row you haven’t put your socks in the hamper. It’s not like the hamper is in Estonia, and I know you can do it, babe. So tonight, promise me you’ll put your socks where they belong before bed.”

Cyrus blinked. His lips separated, but no words came out for nearly thirty seconds.“What?”

“We must keep our apartment nice, so put your dirty socks away.”

“Um. Okay.” A burning smell alerted Cyrus that he needed to flip the omelet. He shuddered, made a mental note to pick up his socks, and promptly forgot about it.

Day Fourteen

Cyrus blinked open his eyes. The room was pitch black. He wasn’t sure what woke him or what time it was. Over the next few seconds, the room came into focus. He read his alarm clock: 3:14 a.m. and discovered the cause of his waking: Vernika was shaking his shoulder and saying, “Cyrus, get up.”

She stood at the bed’s side.

“What what? What happened?” Cyrus wanted to bolt out of bed—maybe a burglar was inside, or there was a fire—but his muscles and brain were still not operational, and he couldn’t even sit up.

“I went to pee and saw you left your socks on the floor again.”

“What?”

“Your socks. On the floor. Again.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Cyrus rubbed his eyes.

“Please don’t do that anymore, honey. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.” 

“I know you will.” Vernika slipped back into bed and instantly fell asleep. 

Cyrus did not fall back asleep for a long time.

Day Fifteen

Using a metallic ink marker, Cyrus printed “socks!” on the underside of his left arm. Throughout the day, he recited the mantra, “Socks.” Whenever he passed by Vernika in their apartment, he glanced at his feet.

After dinner—a simple steak, roast potatoes, and fresh vegetables that Cyrus had picked up at a nearby farmer’s market on his way home from work—Vernika suggested they have a second glass of wine, a suggestion that Cyrus instantly agreed to. Today hadn’t been a particularly grueling day at the accounting firm where he worked, but it hadn’t been tranquil either, and anesthesia in the form of a Burgundy would do him good. 

“Hon,” Vernika said from the kitchen side of their open kitchen-living room. 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t clean the pan properly.” Her Estonian accent thickened when she said pan properly. 

“I didn’t?”

“I saw that yesterday, too, after you made breakfast. You must scrub it hard with soap, but only with the special pan sponge and not the brush because you don’t want to ruin the non-stick surface.”

I have been living here and cleaning pans by myself for three years, Cyrus thought, but the words that left his lips were, “I see.”

Vernika clicked her tongue. “I think that may be the problem. You don’t see. You shouldn’t listen to music while you do the dishes because it distracts you.”

Cyrus nodded. “You’re right.”

Vernika turned the faucet on and spilled liquid soap onto the sponge. “I’ll redo this one, but from now on, do it right.” She clicked her tongue again. “You know what? Why don’t you come here, and I’ll show you how to clean the pan correctly?”

Day Seventeen

Cyrus woke in a cold sweat fifteen minutes before his 6:30 a.m. alarm. His tongue was dry and his hands trembled. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and simultaneously wiped away as much of the nightmare as he could: a seven-foot-tall Vernika with sharp, bloody fangs wearing his socks over her paws like gloves, was chasing him around the apartment. He was screaming soundlessly in his nightmare. 

He carefully slipped from under their down quilt, considered retrieving his socks from the hamper to make his steps quieter, but decided not to, and padded to the kitchen, where he inspected the pan in which he had fried gyoza the night before.  

Clean. 

He looked at his hands, now illuminated by the long, red rays of the rising sun that streamed through the kitchen window. They hadn’t stopped shaking, but they weren’t shaking as much. 

I wonder if I’ll survive the month. It’s just early-marriage alignment; Vernika will mellow, he thought.

Day Twenty Eight

Cyrus pressed his fore and index fingers to his radial artery. His pulse was steady, not too fast, probably within the normal range. 

Maybe I should get a fitness watch to track it. Also, they have EKG monitors so I can tell if my heart’s about to go off the rails. 

He was watching Netflix in the living room with headphones on. 

Vernika hadn’t complained about the television’s sound, but Cyrus bought the headphones three days ago because he worried she would. No, not worried. Afraid she would. He was afraid to wear socks. Afraid to cook. Afraid to use the toilet. Afraid to remove a book from the bookshelf, lest she find dust. Afraid to leave his keys on the dining room table even for a minute rather than in the designated space Vernika set aside for them in the living room bureau drawer. Afraid he might miss chasing every bit of food down the kitchen drain with the sink hose. 

He was afraid whenever he heard Vernika walking around because he thought she might be cleaning or straightening out something he should have attended to. 

Perpetual acid burned his stomach. His eyes itched nonstop, and the skin on his hands were like a snake’s skin. His heart was on the verge of stopping or blowing up, possibly both. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

He was also afraid that Vernika would find the Xanax bottle he picked up from CVS last week after a clandestine visit to a doctor during lunch. He hid the bottle inside a sock in his sock drawer, but was that a safe place? 

Day Thirty

“My love,” Vernika said, her voice soft, like it was on the day they met at Souls Drinkery. But her accent was heavier, more East European, the consonants longer, the vowels sticky. She stood from the couch where they’d both been reading and walked to the window. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I must. I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“I know.” 

She looked at her watch. “Moonrise is in five minutes.”

“Okay.” 

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

You and me both. 

The bottom button on Vernika’s shirt popped off and flew across the living room. It cracked a photo of the two of them that was hanging on the wall. “I will never hurt you. You understand that?”

“I guess.” Cyrus shook his head. “No, not really.”

Vernika’s pants legs split apart. Her silky, blonde hair morphed into a thick, brown mane. 

“Once a month on the full moon I am a werewolf. I know I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry, but my love, don’t fear me. I will find prey out there”—she extended her fur-covered arm out the window—“and return by moonset.” Her voice was gravelly and fierce. She spoke quickly, because her mouth had deformed and long fangs sprouted where her teeth had been.

His pupils went wide, and his knees wobbled.

He blinked and smiled, a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.  

“A werewolf? Thank God. I thought I hung my coat crooked in the front hall closet or left streaks on the wine glasses after washing them.” 

Vernika bared her fangs and growled as she completed her transformation. She climbed out the window of their third-floor apartment and down the side of the building, moonbeams guiding her way to the street.

Cyrus stretched out on the couch and fell deeply asleep.

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If you enjoyed Newlyweds, I think you’ll like my story, Lockdown.