Vignettes of Marriage #3: His Cigars

He was buying too many things.

Four watches last month. One had a 21-jewel Swiss movement—rare now, especially in that condition. Chronograph. Another was the kind dogfighters used in the Great War to time bombs. Or WWII. He didn't remember. He didn’t need it. But he liked the weight. The idea of it.

Then the knives. Damascus steel. Camel bone handles. Solid in the hand. They looked old and felt older. That pleased him. Shoes too—he needed something that didn’t make his feet scream by noon. Goddamn swamp foot. A parting gift from Uncle Sam.

She was singing in the kitchen. Some pop song. Name he didn’t know. Artist he didn’t care to learn. If she’d said it, he’d forgotten. Her voice wasn’t good. And loud. The kind of loud that rattled the places war had chewed into him.

“Hey!” he called. “Can you bring me a tea? I need you to read this mole poison.”

The container looked like a dunce cap. The print, impossibly small. He turned it in his hand like it might confess its secrets if stared at long enough.

He lit a cigar. Not a good one. A placeholder. The good ones were still out of stock.

She came in smiling, carrying the tea like she always had one hand free for him.

“What do you need me to read, babe?”

He handed her the cone.

She read aloud. He watched her mouth, her hands, the glint of her ring. She had a master’s. He bragged about it—not to her, but to strangers. “She’s smart,” he’d say. “Smarter than me.”

“It says sprinkle it sideways,” she said, miming the motion. “Laterally in the tunnel. Like that.”

He nodded and took the poison outside.

The air had cooled just enough to sting. He dropped the pellets where they belonged—sideways, a teaspoon at a time. The moles wouldn’t see it coming. The little bastards tearing up his yard.

When he finished, he sank into a cheap lawn chair. Exhaled. The cigar didn’t taste right. Too dry. Too sweet. A poor imitation.

He pulled out his phone. The cigar site was still open.

The good ones—finally restocked.

He hit “Checkout” before the part of him that still hesitated could speak.

It wasn’t just the cigars. Or the knives. Or the watches. 

It was the house.

Too quiet when she left for work. He’d wander through it, unsure what to touch. The walls felt like they were waiting. So he scrolled. Something for her. Something for him. Something for the garden.

She liked the garden. He liked the quiet way she made it bloom. Liked how she talked to the beans when she didn't know he was listening. He bought her colorful windmills—plastic and pointless. They spun and she smiled. He bought gnome statues too.

That helped.

The doctor said the cigars had to go. Said his lungs were darkening. Said, “You’ve got time, but not much.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t stop.

He’d been dying since ‘Nam. This was just the long part.

The sun had gone down without telling him.

She stepped onto the porch and flicked on the light. He blinked at her silhouette.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” she asked.

He hadn’t noticed. Had he been asleep?

She squinted at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, softer now. “You just look like you’re thinking about something sad.”

He reached out. Touched her knee.

“No,” he said. “Just thinking I need to buy you something.”

She tilted her head. Smiled—confused, sweet, surprised. Then:

“You already do,” she said. “I have enough.”

She was laughing, brushing it off—but she knew what he meant.

The good cigars were on the way.

The watches marked the quiet hours.

The knives stayed sharp.

The windmills spun.

The house still stood.

And she was home.