Bob saw Jane looking at Dick, and suddenly Bob knew. Bob and Jane had been friends with Dick and Carol for years. Dick is a handsome man, the type of male beauty that stops people on the street, and his allure a running joke amongst the two couples. Tall and broad shouldered, Dick’s square-jawed face was topped with wavy golden curls that had yet to show signs of thinning, despite this being his forty-second birthday. “It’s like the three of us came from an assembly line of average, while Dick was custom made,” Jane once remarked, as they drove home from one of their many dinners together.
Carol, Bob, and Jane were of medium size and height, with brown hair. Not chestnut or honey brown, just brown. Their faces pleasant, but plain. Faces that blend in, convenient for a police line-up, yet easy to forget. Though just last month Jane surprised Bob when she spent hundreds of dollars at the beauty salon, having her hair streaked with blonde highlights. Jane never spent that kind of money on herself.
Carol carried out the cake, iced in chocolate and topped with a carefully constructed mound of fresh shaved coconut. Carol lit the candles and Jane led the foursome in a full-throated birthday song. Bob stood in the corner of the dining room of Carol and Dick’s 1920’s bungalow, and mumble-sang, off-key. Dick bent to blow out the flames, eyes up, lips pursed, gazing at Jane while he blew as if shooting her a kiss. Jane flushed, turned away, then smiled too sweetly at Carol. A flash of doubt stole across Carol’s face. Her eyes opened wide as if exposed to a flash bulb, revealing a ripple in her kind, placid demeanor.
Carol ducked her head, her slim fingers slowly extricating the extinguished candles one by one, careful not to disturb the sea of shavings on the cake she spent hours baking and decorating. Bob watched as Carol tucked the candles neatly into a happy birthday napkin, closing it with a clenched fist. She lifted her head and looked across the table where Dick had moved close to Jane. Bob followed Carol’s gaze and they watched as Jane and Dick laughed, as if sharing a private joke. Their foreheads were almost touching, their lips close, glistening. Jane was wearing a new shade of lipstick Bob had not seen before, blood-red.
Bob turned away and touched Carol’s shoulder, startling her. Carol’s eyes met Bob’s and he could tell she knew he knew too. Bob stood at Carol’s side as she plunged the knife firmly through the beautifully decorated cake, as if she no longer cared where the shavings might fall.
Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. His long career in social work and health care has provided him with much to write about. His work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/