The Red

By the third year of our marriage, Shirley Scott's 'Red Stress Disorder' had become a minefield we couldn't afford to touch. The doctor said it was a trauma from her childhood—she had been injured by red fireworks, and seeing red triggers emotional breakdowns, sometimes even violent tendencies. The first time, I didn't understand. I wore a dark red knit sweater home, hoping to surprise her. She came in, saw the color of my shirt, and her expression changed in an instant—like an angry cat. Her voice trembled: "Simon Lincoln, did you do this on purpose?" Before I could react, she grabbed the glass ashtray from the coffee table and smashed it over me. I got a deep gash on my temple, blood running down my cheek. We went to the hospital and I had twelve stitches. The doctor said if it were any closer, it could have damaged my eye. Shirley Scott was crying in the hospital room, apologizing to me, saying she couldn't control herself. I stroked her hair and told her it was alright—that I was the one who forgot her taboo. From then on, there was never a single red item in my wardrobe, not even my socks—they were all white or gray. The second incident happened when she found out she was two months pregnant. That day was our wedding anniversary. I pulled out the red shirt hidden at the bottom of my drawer—that shirt was a gift from my Grandfather when I graduated—I wanted to surprise her. I walked out of the bedroom wearing the shirt. Shirley Scott was cooking sweet and sour ribs in the kitchen. When she saw me, the spatula in her hand clattered to the floor. Simon Lincoln! Are you out of your mind?She rushed at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt, her nails digging into my skin. We wrestled in the living room; she was strong, and I didn't dare hit back, afraid of hurting the baby in her belly. In the end, she slipped, clutching her stomach as she fell to the floor, blood seeping into the white carpet like a withered flower. At the hospital, the doctor told us the baby was lost. Shirley Scott lay on the hospital bed, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. I sat by her bedside, overwhelmed with guilt, convinced it was my own stubbornness that caused her so much suffering. "Simon, it's my fault," she held my hand, her voice hoarse. "This illness has been hard on you. From now on, you don't wear red, and we'll be fine." I nodded, folded that red shirt neatly, and tucked it deep inside the wardrobe, covering it tightly with a dust cover. Since then, I rarely bought red fruits, and the curtains and sofa covers at home were all replaced with off-white or light gray. Shirley said she was touched. Every morning, she made me breakfast; in the evenings, she waited for me to come home from work. Our life seemed to have returned to its original calm. Until Michael Jones showed up. Michael Jones is Shirley Scott's new assistant at the company, a recent college graduate, fair-skinned, with two dimples when he smiles. The first time Shirley brought him home for dinner, he wore a white T-shirt, looked very well-behaved, and even offered to help me wash the dishes. "Simon, Ms. Scott always says you're a good person. Seeing you today, I can see she's right."He chatted with me while drying the dishes. I wasn't wary of him at all. I even thought having a dependable assistant around Shirley was a good thing. What really made me suspicious was the time I went to the hospital to pick up her postoperative herbal medicine. That afternoon, I left work early and passed by a French restaurant downtown. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw Shirley Scott—who should have been resting at home—sitting there with Michael Jones. The warm orange light inside the French restaurant bathed Shirley's face. A slice of tiramisu sat before her, and she scooped a bite with a small spoon, feeding it to Michael. Michael smiled as he opened his mouth, lifting his hand to stroke her hair—a natural, intimate gesture, like a couple who'd been together for years. I stood in the shade of a tree across the street, gripping the herbal medicine bag so tightly it warped, the ointment oozing out and dripping onto my white sneakers, leaving dark stains. What caught my eye even more was Michael Jones's bright red suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a silver watch on his wrist. Shirley Scott looked at him with a softness I had never seen before, like cotton soaked in warm water—without a hint of the irritability that usually came with her Stress Disorder. My phone vibrated in my pocket; it was her personal doctor, his voice urgent: "Mr. Lincoln, Ms. Scott's Stress Disorder has a new treatment plan. We've developed a desensitization therapy..." I stared through the glass window at the two of them dancing closely. Michael Jones's red suit stood out glaringly under the lights. Shirley's hand rested on his shoulder, her smile bright and happy. I chuckled softly into the phone, 'No need, doctor. I've figured out the problem myself.' After hanging up, I didn't glance back at the restaurant scene and turned to head home.