A Linear Equation of Nebulous Portent

Tillman Schweitzer craved something different.

He did not covet his neighbor's wife, nor did he seek succor from material goods. Tillman Schweitzer wanted solitude and personal freedom.

Every day as he showered, his wife, Lorraine, placed starched white shirts and creased gray slacks at the foot of their bed, and put out a perfectly rolled pair of his thirty-one sets of black trouser socks. His white boxers, one of fourteen pairs, were folded neatly atop the socks, which were atop the shirt, which was atop the gray slacks. She even buffed his leather loafers to a high gloss each night and aligned them on the floor by the bed.

Lorraine made blueberry flavored instant oatmeal every morning for breakfast. Today was the 2,274th time he had eaten her oatmeal, which he did not mind in the least.

She kept Tillman's secrets, and she kept them well, but there was a cost. Tillman had tired of making daily payments of personal sacrifice and forced participation, but could otherwise find no fault with his life.

"Till, I think you should swing by that new fish market on your way home this evening. I'm in the mood for fish cakes and wild rice, she said, as Tillman swallowed his seventeenth spoonful of oatmeal.

As always, he attempted to ignore her and to continue his breakfast in silence.

Lorraine would have none of that. She cleared her throat and spoke again. "Yes, fish cakes and wild rice would be nice, wouldn't it, Till? she murmured while carefully stirring two and one half spoonfuls of sugar into the last of Tillman's daily three cups of coffee. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I accept that offer from nice Mr. Standish to come out tonight and survey the basement for an addition?

Despite the sugar-sweet tone that oozed from his wife's lovely lips, Tillman recognized the threat. It was the 3,095th threat that she had implied over their 6.23 years of marriage.

He wiped his mouth for the 61,398th time since he'd married, and put his folded newspaper carefully aside. Before meeting her eyes, he gripped the spoon until his second and third knuckles turned white, and transformed his face into a blank canvas.

"Why, darling, I do believe that you're right. Fish cakes and wild rice would make a lovely dinner after a long day.

Tillman made the calculation automatically, fish cakes and wild rice for the 921st time. His stomach lurched, and he could already detect the rotten odor that would soon fill their tidy kitchen. Tillman was not interested in fish cakes and wild rice. Tillman wanted something more along the lines of quiche, or a nice watercress salad with subtle vinaigrette dressing accompanied by a broiled chicken breast, lightly seasoned.

Lorraine beamed at him, her smug face, though beautiful, was full of an ugly emotion that he found disquieting. He had always been satisfied with his life, however, within the past two months, Tillman had thought the following 639 times: I could live just as easily alone, could I not?

He addressed her in his best doting husband voice, tasting the tiny beads of perspiration that had suddenly gathered above his upper lip. "My love, I think that I'll spend a few leisurely moments in the basement this morning. Do you require any assistance with the breakfast dishes?

Lorraine smiled and patted his cheek before replying in that same sugary voice. "No, my darling, but thank you so very much for asking.

Tillman laid his napkin atop his oatmeal bowl, noting with some surprise that he had not finished his breakfast. That was a definite first. Amazed, he sorted the data and deduced that he had left eight spoonfuls of the bluish mess in the bottom of his dish.

A strange emotion that he could not categorize or organize filled his heart as he made his way downstairs.

The basement belonged to Tillman. Every nuance, every corner, every carefully placed shelf, bespoke a nature that could only be assigned to him, while at the same time, no one would ever believe this part of the house was his special place.

Delicate Teak furniture rested in perfect place on top of a rose-colored carpet, and sleek white brackets held a myriad of sentimental belongings. There were framed photographs, assorted Staffordshire figurines, mahogany boxes filled with charms and baubles, and a leather-bound journal. Tillman smiled and unfastened his tie.

He stepped behind his dainty oriental screen for the 1000th time and removed his clothing, his smile deepening as the odd significance of the number struck home.

What a perfectly round and beautiful number 1000 is. When next I step behind this screen, I expect I shall be a brand-new person. In fact, maybe this 1000th time can be the last, for any form of ten is fantastic and meaningful and marks significant change.

He hummed as he put on fresh clothing, happiness and well being invigorating his spirit. His reflection in the ornate oval floor mirror smiled at him with pretty coral lips, and Tillman pirouetted this way and that, admiring his latest purchase from the Internet catalog. More pleased than he could ever recall feeling, he decided that he should share this milestone with Lorraine. She would, at last, appreciate his flawless taste.

At step number three from the bottom of the staircase, he called to his wife and asked her to join him for a few moments.

After her ill-tempered reply in which she informed her husband that she was rather busy and that he must wait, Tillman counted off the moments until she made an appearance. Exactly 8.7 minutes passed and he used that time to prepare the room for her presence.

She wore a look of frustration when she entered the basement, and as usual refused to look at him full on in his favorite attire by keeping her gaze cast down. She seemed annoyed by the interruption in her morning routine of talk shows and mint liqueur in the sun-spattered den, but Tillman felt only patience and a sincere desire to share. He counted six of her breaths, one for each full year of their marriage, and then set about swaying her steadfast mind set with a heartfelt demonstration of his commitment to his preferred lifestyle.

She struggled at first, still refusing to look at him, her heart thundering loud enough for Tillman to find its cadence and work within its beat. Her eyes on him and filled with approval was his only goal.

The plastic had been a stroke of genius, which Lorraine was certain to appreciate as she had told Tillman 2,439 times that prevention was the very best cure. He'd spread it over the elegant beige fabric of his sofa, and across the rose-colored carpet after he'd summoned her.

She sat in silence grinning madly, eyelids held open in an attentive stare by a thin strip of surgical tape, absorbing every stunning detail as Tillman danced for her in his brand new Prada cocktail dress and racy silk stockings. He moved slowly, swishing his hips, undulating his belly, and offering her sensual glances through thick lashes.
All things considered, it had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to convert her revulsion to admiration. Only a scant forty-three seconds of physical struggle, and exactly five well-placed swipes of his utility blade, and Lorraine's permanent smile and unblinking gaze radiated her approval.

She quieted after just fifty-six moans. Or perhaps it was forty-six moans. And there were only nine or ten bloodstains on her bathrobe, which Tillman assumed made her happy, it being her favorite robe and all. It amused him how compliant and adoring she'd become once he had placed that lovely, and quite deep, six-inch gash along the inside of her right upper arm. He smiled at her silly sweetness.

A wave of tender emotion warmed him over the fact that she'd finally recognized his need for respect and given it to him so selflessly. He supposed it was her awe over his beautiful new dress, perhaps even a desire to borrow it. Why else would she whisper, "please so many times and offer to do anything for him? Tillman was flattered, though it was obvious to him that the gown wasn't right for Lorraine's pale coloring.

He was pleased that she went peacefully, and after only 10,000 drops of blood trailed down her arm and fell from the tip of her manicured middle finger.

Well, roughly, anyway.