Tomorrow, Dear

Wallace touched the prongs of his fork. He imagined if he played them, he could make beautiful music. But alas, plucking at them had only resulted in broken nails in the past. If he was going to make a sound at breakfast, he was going to need a second spoon... but he had no rhythm.

"Wallace!" Janine bellowed, attempting to snap him from his dreams of becoming a utensil virtuoso.

"Wallace, can you hear that?"

He pictured himself at Carnegie Hall.

"Wallace, that's rain. It's raining, Wallace. You know what that means?"

He closed his eyes. The rain used to mean something to him; it meant a fresh renewal, and he'd see the grass would suddenly look greener, and the streets would be stunningly cleaner. Now, it only meant one thing.

"I've seen them, and they're not getting smaller, Wallace. The yellow stains in the ceiling. In the bedroom, Wallace. THE BEDROOM. What do you think we're breathing in? Do you think that's healthy? You've said you'd do something about that. Remember?"

Wallace opened his eyes, and looked helplessly at the dining room ceiling.

"We could always move the bed in here. It looks fine to me right here."

Janine was in no mood.

"When, Wallace?"

"Tomorrow, Dear."

Ah, tomorrow. They both knew what tomorrow was going to bring. The room suddenly got colder.

"I see." Janine said, quietly. "It's March 3rd tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Are you still going through with it?" Janine said, never believing it for one moment.

"Yes. But I could do it late at night, so I can get whatever you need me to do done during the daytime. Yes, I'll figure out just where that leak is and I'll have it taken care of tomorrow, dear."

Janine turned her back to him, and busied herself with the one cup that was in the sink. 35 years she had been with him. 35 years, and she never believed she'd actually know the day her husband would die. Well, the day her husband WANTED to die. She felt he was truly a silly man. She always felt that way.

"We make promises to ourselves, Wallace, and we don't have to go through with all of them."

"I know, dear. But it's my time."

March 3rd marked the day his hero, Ivor Cutler, died.

Ivor was fascinating to Wallace; He had a life like no other. He wrote books and poetry, he wrote music and recorded albums, and he even rubbed shoulders with The Beatles. THE Beatles. Can you imagine?

But was almost... no... likely the real reason why he was so obsessed with the man was the way he lived. Against the grain, without any concern about how other people acted, dressed, spoke, thought, or moved. No, Ivor was a man who was completely unique. And Wallace never met him, and never would meet him.

Ivor Cutler would die on March 3rd, 2006. He was 83 years old.

Now, Wallace was 83 years old. And now, it was March 2nd.

Wallace was not a religious man. Of course, his parents were devout Calvinists, and that might have played into his dwindling interest in religion as a whole. Despite his lack of faith, he did believe in... something.

He couldn't define it, and couldn't explain it to his lovely wife. Not even one bit.

Janine washed the cup. It was Vitrelle. Butterfly gold. She ran her fingers over the big butterfly, then the little butterfly. She didn't care much for the flowers, but she loved the little plants on it the most. They looked like little frogs, smiling at her. They made her feel at home. And they NEVER broke. Well, they RARELY break, and when they do, it's, well, horrifying. They don't make them any more, and they sure let you know when they break. They leave a ringing in your ears, and dangerous shards unlike anything else you've ever seen.

She liked the fact that she had the cups with the normal lip. She didn't ever want to have one of those turned-up lips. They only made the ones with the turned up lips after a certain time, and then they didn't make them at all.

"I've been thinking, dear... Is there anything else you need me to do tomorrow? I'd like to, well..."

Janine didn't turn around.

"Oh, there's a lot I'd like you to do, Wallace."

Ivor Cutler never belonged. He couldn't be categorized. Was his art celebrated? Wallace wasn't sure -- All Wallace knew is that when he was younger, Ivor was always on the radio. He was mysterious yet simple. Blunt yet surreal. His performances were thoroughly engaging no matter what they were.

Wallace, on the other hand? He was... predictable. Monday to Friday. Saturday and Sunday.

No, Wallace was not a religious man. Did I mention that?

 He was ordinary in every way. The talent he wanted? It wasn't there. When he tried to write music, it all came out like "Canon in D", which is fine if he was Pachelbel, but of course he was not. Every poem he ever wrote deteriorated over the lines into a dirty limerick. Every book he wrote was unfinished.

He never said it out loud, but it was his belief that there was some sort of magic in his plan. After all, if they were the same age, and it happened on the same day, well, then... Well, maybe, right?

He pondered if Ivor would be proud of him.

 "Yes, there's a lot I'd like you to do." Janine sighed.

"And I'll do them all. Starting first thing tomorrow."