Assembly NOT Required by Héctor Hernández, Passion Fruit Cocktail

Gina strained under the heavy load. “Hold up. You're coming to the first step. Okay. Next step. Okay. Last step. Wait! Slow down! Stop! Stop! My hands are slipping!”

 

Thunk!

 

The box hit the hardwood floor of the entryway.

 

“Damn it, Gina! Why did you drop it?”

 

“I told you to wait, but you kept going, so don't blame me! If I say ‘wait,’ then, dammit, wait!”

 

“Okay, okay. You’re right. It was my fault not yours.” Dris regretted his outburst. “Let me know when you're ready to start again, honey. I'm sorry. Take your time. This box is heavier than I thought.”

 

Gina hated that she had dropped the box. What the hell good had come from all those personal weight training sessions with Kenny at the gym?

 

She had been happy with her aerobics classes. She liked the constant movement, the music, the social atmosphere, gossiping with the other girls. But she had let herself be talked into a six-week training session that the gym was offering at half price. Kenny had said he could put some meat on her spindly arms, not bulk them up like Arnold “ah’ll be baak” Schwarzenegger but like Emily Blunt in Edge of Tomorrow.

 

Gina hadn't heard anything after “spindly.” She thought her arms were fine until Kenny said they were spindly, so she signed up. She would tough out the last two sessions and then go back to her aerobics classes, even though her arms still looked spindly.

 

“Okay. I'm ready.”

 

Gina and Driscoll made it all the way to the dining room—this time without dropping the box. They set it flat and off to the side, leaving plenty of space to assemble the brand-new, modern design, Italian dinning table. They went back to the truck and brought in the matching sideboard, which was much lighter. Then they went back for the six chairs—lighter still.

 

“Thanks, honey. You're a trooper.” Dris threw his arms around Gina and kissed her with just enough playful passion to soothe the sting of his earlier harsh words. He felt her body yield. He took that as a sign for “apology accepted.”

 

“I'm gonna start putting these pieces together. I'll let you know when I need your help again, okay?”

 

“You're going to start now? Why not do it tomorrow, on your day off?”

 

“Can't. They called me in to work tomorrow. And I don't want to waste my weekend on this. Besides, I'll need your help. Better if we do it tonight.”

 

“Ok, Dris. I'll get dinner started.”

 

An hour later, the assembled table stood in all its magnificence in the center of the dining room. Its deep, rich mahogany surface lent elegance to the space. The three-layered base—set with a sculpted semicircle, reeded on its edges—supported the table top and was the unique feature that had captured Dris and Gina's hearts. They had never seen anything like it. It was a unique piece, a work of art, really. And the top had a thick, beautifully—but not too ornately—carved skirt that made the table both modern and classic at the same time.

 

“Oh, Dris. It's even more beautiful here than in the showroom. I always thought furniture that was do-it-yourself-assembly would look cheap, but this is just marvelous. Isn't it?”

 

“I know, right? Now for the sideboard. I'll do the chairs last. They're easy. I can do them by myself, but I'll need your help with the sideboard.”

 

Another hour later the sideboard was complete. It looked just as stunning as the table—it had the same sculpted base—and it fit perfectly in the space between the pantry and the dining room entrance.

 

Dris had measured the width of that space and calculated they would need a sideboard that would leave eight to ten inches of clearance on each side. That would give everything a proper balance. Dris liked balance, and their new sideboard allowed for nine inches of clearance. Smack in the middle of eight and ten. Both Gina and Dris took that as a sign that the sideboard was meant for them.

 

Gina headed upstairs. “I'm going to bed, but don't you stay up all night. You can leave some of this for tomorrow.”

 

“No. I won't stay up too late. I'm right behind you.”

 

Gina knew that was a lie. Dris would stay up all night if he had to in order to finish. That's just who he was. They parted company with a kiss, and Dris went to tackle the chairs.

 

In the morning, the first thing out of Dris's mouth was, “I'm taking the table back.”

 

Gina wasn't sure she had heard right. “What? You want to do what with the table?”

 

“Take it back. I'm taking it back.”

 

Gina now saw the hard look of determination on his face. She knew that look. Something had gone terribly wrong. “But why? The table was fine last night. What happened?”

 

“After you get dressed, come down stairs and I'll show you.”

 

Dris was standing by the table when Gina entered the dinning room. He had his arms crossed which meant he was really steamed. The only other time in their two years of marriage he had crossed his arms like that was when she had scraped the side of the car and didn't know it until Dris noticed and confronted her about it. But this time, whatever was wrong with the table, couldn't be her fault. Could it? Oh my God. Maybe when I dropped the box I damaged the table.

 

With a knot twisting itself in her gut, Gina approached the table cautiously. She saw the six chairs neatly arranged around it. She tried to find some flaw in the table, but her eyes were either too dull or the flaw was so insignificant that only Dris's obsessive penchant for perfection could spot it. Gina wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to return the table because the skirt corners didn't match up at exactly forty-five degrees. She could tell Dris was waiting for her to spot the obvious flaw in the table.

 

“Dris, honey, I don't see anything. Why don't you tell me what's wrong with it?”

 

With mock gallantry, Dris pulled back one of the chairs. “Sure. But have a seat. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

 

Gina suddenly felt uncomfortable now that Dris wanted her to be comfortable. She sat in the chair.

 

“Make yourself really comfortable. Scoot in closer. Please.” He motioned with his hands.

 

Gina with a wary eye on Dris, tried to scoot her chair in. She immediately saw the problem. Her feet ran into the base. She could go no further, yet there was a good eight inches between her stomach and the edge of the table. She was heartbroken. The table looked so gorgeous, but it was functionally impractical.

 

Dris unloaded. “What fucking moron designs a table for looks but not function? Who were they catering too with this table? Contestants for The Biggest Loser? This table goes back, along with the chairs and sideboard.”

 

“Whoa, whoa.” Gina held up a hand. “I can see why the table and chairs have to go back. As gorgeous as this table is—and I mean gorgeous, I just love it—I agree it's not practical. It would be too awkward to eat. So, yes. Table, chairs. Back to the store—“

 

“All right then—“

 

“Wait. I'm not finished. Table and chairs. Back. But why the sideboard?”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Of course I'm serious. It's a beautiful piece. A unique piece. It fits perfectly in the spot it's in. What's wrong with it?”

 

“The table, chair, and sideboard are a set. They match in design. We can't keep the sideboard and bring in a table and chairs that have a different design. That wouldn't look right. It would be a mismatch.”

 

“So? Who says they have to match? Can't each piece stand on its own? I'm not saying we'll buy just any old table and chairs. Obviously they'll have to complement the sideboard, but they don't have to be the exact same design.”

 

Dris was shaking his head even before Gina had finished pleading her case, “No. It won't work.”

Gina hated when Dris dug into his obsessive, compulsive tendencies. She hated that her souvenir bublegrams—those little solid blocks of glass with 3D images inside that she would pick up on their vacations—were uniformly arranged on the living room shelves because Dris wanted orderly presentation. They were her knick-knacks, after all. She hated that after she put the mayonnaise or mustard back in the refrigerator, Dris would come in behind her and spin the containers so their labels faced front. She hated that when she kicked off her shoes in the living room after a tiring day at work, Dris would set them upright and place them neatly in the closet.

 

And Gina especially hated that she had to shower every single time before they made love. Sometimes she just felt like having spontaneous, raw sex. She wanted the smells their bodies produced to envelope her in a raunchy, animalistic frenzy of thrashing limbs, claws digging into his back, his hips thrusting aggressively, the explosion of a coupled orgasm sending her to screaming heights.

 

She started to protest. “But—“

 

“Gina, honey, please. It won't work. Trust me. Look, you and I will go and pick out another set. One that you'll love just as passionately as this one, but one that can actually be used. Okay? What'd you say, honey?”

 

She loved Dris. In spite of his compulsive tendencies, she loved him deeply. Was she really going to put up a fight over something as mundane as a sideboard table? It seemed silly now that she thought about it. “You're right, Dris. We'll find something that will be just as good, maybe even better.”

 

“Thank you, honey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He was peppering her with kisses on every “thank you,” and she loved it. She loved him. “All right. Looks like my weekend will be full disassembling this design failure and repackaging everything. Thank God I saved the packing material.”

 

By Sunday afternoon, Dris had repackaged the table, chairs, and sideboard. He had been meticulous—as always. Gina had tried to help but stopped when she realized Dris was redoing her work. He had defended his obsession to detail—after Gina had rolled her eyes—by explaining that each item had to be repackaged in a very specific way, like a jigsaw puzzle, so that it all fit in its original carton. Packing everything in a haphazard fashion was simply counter productive.

 

When Dris came home from work Monday, he literally had to blink his eyes because he did not believe what he was seeing. There in the middle of the dinning room stood the table—fully assembled—and the six chairs. He walked closer to confirm that what he was seeing was, in fact, real. He saw the sideboard out of the corner of his eye and turned to face it. It, too, was fully assembled and standing proudly, mockingly it seemed, in the space where it knew it belonged.

 

Dris shook uncontrollably with anger. Gina! She had gone behind his back and hired someone to reassemble the furniture. She must have had second thoughts. But how could she have done this without talking to him first? What did this say about their marriage that she didn't have confidence he would listen and try to work out a compromise?

 

He was boiling and punched her number into his phone. He would call her at work and ask—no, demand—that she explain herself. The phone rang on the other end. It rolled over to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. She would see his number and call back.

 

Dris walked to the table and reached out with a tentative hand, uncertain if he should touch the rich mahogany surface. Maybe this wasn't real. If his hand passed through thin air, what would he do? He'd have to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist at the very least. He reached out a little farther. He was millimeters away from the table's surface when his phone buzzed. He jerked his hand back, but then realized he was being silly. Of course the table was real. He slapped his hand hard on the top, a little too hard. His hand stung. The table was definitely real—and surprisingly solid.

 

He looked at his phone. It was Gina. “Hello, honey.” He would be calm. There had to be some other explanation for this. He couldn't think of one, but the shock of hitting the table had knocked some sense into him. Gina would never have gone behind his back. There had to be some other explanation. He would give her the benefit of the doubt.

 

“I saw you called. What's up?”

 

Dris heard an easy, carefree breeze in her voice. Of course it hadn't been Gina who'd done this. What the hell had he been thinking? He flushed with shame. But who—or what?—had done it? “Yeah, honey. I called. You'll never guess what I'm looking at right now?”

 

Without missing a beat, Gina said, “The naked pictures of my hot bod I texted you?”

 

Dris smiled. “You texted me naked pictures? When?”

 

“Give me two minutes. I'll snap a few and send them right over.”

 

Dris had to laugh. “I'd rather you show me in person, hot mama.”

 

“Oh, you can count on it.”

 

“All right. It's a date. But listen. Seriously. You'll never guess what I'm looking at right now.”

 

“Ok. What?”

 

“Brace yourself. And don't call those men in the white coats. You know, the ones with the large net.”

 

“No promises. Tell me first.”

 

“I'm looking at a fully assembled table, chairs, and sideboard in our dinning room.”

 

Silence.

 

“Honey? Gina? Did I lose you? Can you hear me?”

 

“Say again?”

 

“No shit, honey. The table, chairs, and sideboard are all assembled and positioned in the dinning room. I swear to God. I can send you a picture if you don't believe me.”

 

“That's not possible.”

 

“That's what I said. But we're both wrong. It is possible. I just don't know how it was made possible. Do you have any idea how—”

 

“Oh, my God! Oh, no!”

 

“What, honey? What is it?”

 

“I'll call you back. Give me five minutes, okay. Just five minutes.”

 

Before Dris could say another word, he was listening to dead air.

 

Less than five minutes later, his phone buzzed. “Hello, honey? My God, you had me scared. What was that all about?”

 

“Ok. Don't be mad. Promise you won't be mad.”

 

“I'm past mad, honey. No, I mean, I was mad when I first walked through the front door, but I'm not mad anymore. Now I'm just confused and extremely curious. So what do you know about this?”

 

“Remember a few weeks ago when I broke the glass tray that sits inside the microwave?”

 

How could Dris forget. The replacement had cost $120—not including shipping—for less than a dollar's worth of raw material. “Yeah. I remember.”

 

“Well, I didn't break it. The cleaning lady did, but I didn't want to tell you because you would have told me to fire her. She had already ruined the bathroom faucets by scrubbing them with an abrasive cleaner, and she had broken the rolling mechanism on one of the custom blinds, and you said if she screwed up one more time you wanted her gone. Remember?”

 

Dris flushed at the memory. He later regretted having said that to Gina. “Yeah, I remember, but I didn't mean it. I was just pissed.”

 

“Wether you meant it or not, you said it. And I didn't want to take the chance that you would want her gone, so I lied and told you I had broken the tray.”

 

“So what's that got to do with the table?”

 

“Well, she's felt bad about all the damage ever since, so when she came in this morning to clean the house, she saw the boxes and thought she could make it up to us. She called her husband, and the two of them assembled everything as a way of paying us back.”

 

“Oh.” Dris felt like a heel. “So what did you tell her? Did you say I was mad?”

 

“No. I lied and told her you laughed. That you thought you had walked into the Twilight Zone. I don't think she got the reference, though. She's from an indigenous community in Guatemala. Her village probably didn’t have electricity, much less televisions.”

 

“Thanks, honey.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For making me out to be a good person.”

 

“Dris, you are a good person.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but . . . .”

 

“Listen, Dris. I'm afraid I'll be working really late tonight. I'll be home by nine, but tomorrow I'll help you get everything back into the boxes, Ok?”

 

“Sure. That'll be fine, honey. I'll let you get back to work. Love you.”

 

“Love you, too.”

 

When Gina came home and walked into the dining room, she saw the table was gone. She could hear Dris upstairs. From the sounds, he was watching tv. All of the boxes were neatly stacked and ready to be returned, but off to the side was an empty one. Why is this one empty? What went into that?

 

She turned her head and saw the sideboard behind her. It was still there. Dris hadn't repackaged it. A white sheet of paper with writing had been placed on top. She walked over and read the note: “This is an early Christmas present, so don't expect one in December.” I smiley face punctuated the sentence.

 

Her heart swelled. She knew how hard it must have been for Dris to give in. She would go upstairs and thank him, and she had no intention of showering first.

About the Author:

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He worked nearly twenty-seven years for the County of Los Angeles, primarily administering construction contracts. He is now retired. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine and After Dinner Conversation.