Gnomebody Asked You

The gnome in the neighbor’s garden judges me. I swear it.

His smile is too wide, teeth too big, eyes too empty. But the way he’s posed—arm outstretched—it feels like he’s pointing and laughing as I walk by. Is it something I’m wearing, or how I’m walking, or is my hair not right? His eyes always follow.

All my life I wanted to be noticed—but it being from a garden gnome was not on my bingo card.

I hover behind the living room curtains, pulling them back just enough to avoid his gaze. But I catch his big blue eye staring back. Oh, God, did he see me?

I laugh at myself. He’s a garden gnome—

Of course Mr. Finch saw me.

Mr. Finch—bane of my existence for the past two months. No idea if that’s his name, but it fits. I’m sure it’s something pretentious sounding like that.

“What are you doing, babe?” Jon’s voice rips me from my reverie.

I can’t tell him about Mr. Finch. He wouldn’t understand.

Or maybe he would?

No, no. Jon is too pragmatic.

“N-nothing. Just enjoying—” I thrust open the curtain for dramatic effect, “—this glorious day!” I place my hands on my hips. My power stance. Take that Mr. Finch, I’m not afraid of you. “Ah, the sunshine. The trees. The breeze. The garden gnome.” I choke on the last bit. Why did I say that? Fucking gnome.

“Okay,” Jon says slowly. “Well, stop it, you’re being weird.” He kisses my cheek and saunters away to the kitchen. His kisses have gotten shorter in the last years, more so since Mr. Finch arrived. Jon and I keep brushing past each other instead of into each other.

I turn; God, that ass—like two Easter hams wrestling in gym shorts. I whip back around, narrowing my eyes at Mr. Finch. I close the curtains—he’s not allowed to see Jon’s cheeks.

So, you met Jon.

I know, I know—I have a husband. Hard to claim ‘no one notices me’ when one person technically does. But, okay, that’s only one super cool person. Or… used to be.

Happy memories prick the back of my eyes. He’s been pulling away lately, and I keep pretending I don’t notice.

Jon looks at me but doesn’t see me. When he does, I get the feeling he looks at me… different.

“What did you wanna eat?” I ask once in the kitchen.

He mumbles into the fridge. “What?” I ask.

He does it again—he knows I hate that.

“What?” I snap, sharper this time.

“I. Don’t. Know. Amber.” His voice razor sharp through clenched teeth.

My body bristles. Mr. Finch only judges me, I think. He doesn’t yell.

Ugh, I don’t want to start another fight.

I steady my shaky breathing and force a smile.

“Stop breathing so hard you little gremlin.” Jon barks and storms out of the kitchen.

Gremlin.

Ironic—the word hits my heart. Used to be his nickname for me. I smile at the rose-colored time before we drifted. We still have peppered moments and I cling to them so I don’t say the wrong thing. But now, even breathing is too much.

I glide to the sink and pull back the curtains, it feels heavier with judgement “Mr. Finch. You and your finger aren’t winning today. But… what do you think of Jon?” I whisper.

My first question to him. God, how rude. We haven’t officially met! I smack my head and giggle. It turns into a bellowing laugh. I can’t believe Mr. Finch and I have known each other for two months and I’ve never asked his real name. My laughter ricochets off the fridge and cabinets. Euphoria takes over, and my feet carry me into a silly little dance.

Footsteps bound down the hall.

Leave Jon, something deep in me says.

I freeze.

I stare at Mr. Finch.

Did he say that or did I?

But we’re happy… right? We’ve risen above worse rough patches.

Does Mr. Finch know something? Am I fool to stay?

“What’s wrong with you? Giggling like a maniac now you’re standing like a statue. Are you high?” Jon spits.

I tear my eyes away from Mr. Finch. “No. Not yet anyway.” I mime a rim shot.

No reaction from Jon. Embarrassing.

I resist the urge to look at Mr. Finch—he must be laughing at my dance, my failed joke. Why didn’t I close the curtains?

“I was dancing, thought of a joke and then I got light-headed.”

His features harden. I totter on each foot waiting,

“Dancing, huh?” He leans on the doorway, crossing his arms. “Show me.” A playful smile tugs at his lips.

God, that smile. I’m still such a sucker for his face. Ugh, I want to be so mad right now at Mr. Finch—but his smiles melts everything else away. I forget Mr. Finch. I forget the last few years. I give myself to the moments. To Jon.

I inhale, position my head and hands, and pray muscle memory kicks in.

After a few fumbling combos, he asks, “What was the joke? Oh, no, no, keep dancing.” He grins, waving his hands in encouragement. What a jerk. The playfulness. I miss this. An old warmth kindles in my chest. Moments like this fool me into thinking we’re okay.

I don’t say the joke, hoping my flawless high school dance team combos are distracting enough. A twirl lands me face to face with Mr. Finch. I freeze as if I’d just been slapped. Jon laughs and encourages me to continue, but he feels far away.

Mr. Finch watched all of that. How embarrassing. I’m sure I can hear his laughter, thinking how much of a fool I am for wanting to give myself to these moments.

Of all times to be seen finally, I think bitterly. Then, rage creeps in my veins. Mr. Finch is extremely rude. He’s really pissing me off. I stomp to the curtains and swipe them closed. I turn back to a bewildered Jon.

“I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.” I suggest, brushing past him.

He grabs my arm. “It’s three in the afternoon, Amber.”

“Right. Well, bring me a snack for my nap, then.”

I stare at the bedroom ceiling. It swirls into images of Mr. Finch—his life before the garden, his family, his smug little routines. Why is he so judgey? Does he even have a family? What makes him think he’s so much better than me?

Jon shakes my arm. “Amber. Amber.”

I blink away Mr. Finch’s life and look at the plate Jon’s holding. Pizza rolls. Gushers. A child’s lunch. A gnome’s lunch.

Suddenly I’m not hungry.

Jon’s shoulders drop and sighs, “I thought we were getting somewhere.”

I swallow bitter pride.

Leave him, the thought catapults again behind my eyes.

“Mr. Finch?” I gasp.

Shit. Did Jon hear that?

Even though it’s three, not trying to be judged by a gnome is exhausting. Maybe a quick ten hour nap.

Tomorrow I’m going to have a little chat with Mr. Finch for invading my happy marriage.

***

Why am I so hot? Gross. Oh, my God, no—Mr. Finch.

I squash the urge to jolt out from under this smothering arm. Please be Jon. I hold my breath. My eyes search the extremes of my sockets. God, please be Jon.

Stars spark in my eyes. My breath shudders out.

Get a grip, Amber. It’s not Mr. Finch.

Someone’s drowsy breathing continues. I assure myself Mr. Finch can’t sneak in at night to mimic Jon’s breathing.

I’m going to die from this heat.

I slide out from the arm, not daring to look back. Like Schrödinger—it could be Jon, could be Mr. Finch. It only matters if I turn around.

So I don’t.

I tiptoe to the kitchen. I caress the edge of the curtain above the sink, sopping with gnome judgement, and my jaw drops in a silent scream.

Mr. Finch is in a suit now.

A suit!

Proudly chesting his lapels and little fat hands on his waist.

My power stance. My power stance.

Mocking me? “Who do you think you are?” I whisper sharply.

I step back from the window, avoiding his little dumb face. I throw a few boxing moves and square up to the window, like he’s standing in front of me. I perform my best Mortal Kombat triple kick-punch-jab, “Bam, little bitch down!” I run around in a circle, waving to the crowd. I do an encore lap and—

Jon stands in the doorway.

I gulp my crowd thank yous and fumble to a stop. How much had he seen? What did he hear? A knot loops itself in my intestines.

To my relief, he smiles.

“Did you win?” He lightly mocks.

The knot loosens. He tries, see? I can, too.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” I toss my hair and strut.

We laugh.

For a moment, it feels like a nice start to the day.

I hand Jon his lunch from the fridge and send him off through the garage.

I lock the door.

My smile falls.

I turn to the window.

“Mr. Finch.” I hiss.

I thrust open the curtains and he’s still standing there, mocking my power stance.

Judging me. Judging my marriage.

But I’m happy, damnit. Jon is beginning to see me. I’m seeing him.

An idea sparks in my mind for when Jon comes home. I decide to have a little chit chat with Mr. Finch.

First, I stop in the bedroom to be sure I look impeccable for this encounter.

Mr. Finch thinks I can’t match him in his clothing.

Black. Black looks great with everything. Including my seething, growing anger for this judgey gnome. I throw on a sensible cocktail dress and pumps. Over the top? Sure, but the situation calls for it.

I throw open the door, laughing because my life is amazing—why wouldn’t I laugh? I stride toward Mr. Finch and my laughter stops before my legs do.

He’s a fisherman now, holding a fish as big as him. A proud, toothy smile gleams in the morning light. My well-laid argument and arsenal of insults fall out of my head.

Feigning confidence, I cut to the chase:

“Jon and I are fucking happy.” I blurt, starting to pace.

Silence.

“What, tired from holding your fish?” I snarl.

More silence.

“I-I could catch one twice as big as that. And I did! My fish is Jon!”

His silence fuels my anger.

A car turns on the road—Miss Canopy, widow.

“Be cool,” I face Mr. Finch and put my finger to my lips. He’ll be the one to cause a scene, if anyone. My lips contort into a smile and wave to her.

She slows to a stop.

Shit.

“What are you doing in the neighbors garden, dear?”

Terror knocks my legs—I hadn’t noticed, I’d all but destroyed their garden with my pacing.

“They asked me to help landscape. M-modern technique.”

Miss Canopy’s eyes sweep over the destroyed garden, looks me up and down my outfit. I forget—cocktail dresses are evening wear, not eight am landscaping. I shift, uncomfortable, as her eyebrow arches to its maximum height. She faces forward as the window slides shut. She putters away.

I whip back to Mr. Finch and point an angry finger to him, “Look here you little shit, knock it off. Jon and I are happy. I don’t care if you fish or if you wear tuxes or if you’re an astronaut—leave us alone!”

I stomp back into my house, slamming the door.

Mr. Finch is impossible to ignore with the curtains open, so I close them. I swear I can smell his fish in here. I clean and prepare for Jon to return home.

When Jon pulls in the driveway, I make a show of greeting him. This time in my best heels, purple evening gown, and formal make-up. “Oh, hello, Jon, my love, my rock. My husband, whom loves me. Ever, ever so much.”

Jon glances at me, eyes widen a flash. “Whom? Okay, Shakespeare, love you, too.” He sidesteps me into the house.

I grab his shirt and, staring straight at Mr. Finch, plant the biggest kiss on Jon. His lunch box falls as we fall into passion. Jon pulls me through the door. I wink at Mr. Finch.

See Mr. Finch? Where’s yours?

I slam the door in his face, laughing and enjoying my win. My marriage. My—

“Seriously, Amber? Why slam the door?” Jon stomps off.

I stand there, mouth agape from the emotional whiplash. It’s Mr. Finch’s fault anyway.

But… he doesn’t know Mr. Finch like I do.

A pang: or does he?

Has Jon been talking to him?

Jon watches me like he’s waiting for something to break.

He’s going to leave you. You waited too long.

Is that me?

Or Fisherman Finch?

I feel foolish in my evening gown and heels, Jon’s mad again, Miss Canopy thinks I’m a lunatic, and Mr. Finch is still out there, judging.

I slam the guest bedroom door, locking myself inside.

Tears soak the pillow. I cry for Jon, us, the marriage I desperately want but now Jon doesn’t. Where did it all go wrong?

Mr. Finch.

He’s making me act this way. It’s unnerving how invasive he’s convinced himself he can be.

Ding! Dong!

My blood freezes, mind races. He’s a gnome, right? Harmless. Not on my doorstep waiting to use me as bait for his next catch.

I hear Jon greet the person at the door, but my panic muffles their conversation. My shaky hands crack it open:

“…with her histrionics, is she in a play or something? What compelled her to yell at my gnome in a cocktail dress at nine in the morning? Did she not like I changed it? I bought a whole set to display but didn’t know it’d upset her so much. I barely used them in two months.”

Jon pauses, “She’s going through a lot right now.”

“We all are. Doesn’t mean she should destroy my garden!” The neighbor growls. “On top of that, Miss Canopy calls and tells me Amber told her she’s doing ‘modern landscaping’. Here, the brochure I told you a bit ago. Check it out.”

I hear papers shuffle as the house door shuts. Jon’s sigh reverberates from the living room.

I creep down the hallway and peer in at Jon, reading a brochure in his hand. I didn’t read it all, but it’s enough to know I need to escape.

Mr. Finch was right—I’d waited too long. Jon is going to lock me up, leave me, and move on.

Not before I make the first move.

I burst into the living room, startling Jon. He fumbles to hide the brochure. My eyes catch the large font in the lamplight:

Cliffside Manor.

What a joke of a name.

Even Mr. Finch could come up with something better than that. I’m not going to be committed to a place with such an unsavory name.

“Who was at the door?” I fiddle with my gown.

“Oh, neighbor. Dropped off… tomatoes.”

You lying sack of shit. Mr. Finch was right. Wow. He… was looking out for me. Jon doesn’t care about me.

“Oh, I love tomatoes! Where are they?” I hold out my hand.

His face blanches—always account for physical logistics of a lie. “I…” His voice trails.

I loved you, Jon. I thought you saw me.

His face brightens, “I ate them. Cherry tomatoes.” His eyes search mine for belief. I let him find it.

All this time, Mr. Finch was right.

“Next time, right? Is there anything else the neighbor said?”

He shakes his head.

“I love you, Jon.”

The slightest hesitation. My heart pangs as my plan is confirmed. “I love you, too.” His voice is hollow, his words practiced. Like he’s afraid of me.

Maybe Mr. Finch isn’t the one judging me.

“Well, I feel silly, I’m going to change.” I offer.

“Yea, good idea. Hey, wanna change together and maybe shower the day away?” He wiggles his brows.

My body wants to join him, but my heart and Mr. Finch tell me no. The last bit of their conversation rings in my head, “…the brochure I told you about a bit ago.”

It was all to butter me up. All an act. Jon is a fraud, the human version of a Ponzi Scheme.

“I’ll meet you in there, taking off these shoes will be a nightmare.” I crouch down. He slips past. No offer to help.

What happened to us? The void is too deep to bridge no matter how hard we reach for each other.

As Jon starts the shower, I slip out the front door.

I offer Mr. Finch a consoling smile and small wave.

He only offers his fish.

Good job, Mr. Finch. You got your fish. And I let go of mine.

I round the corner—away from a hollow husband and old scars. My walk becoming a brisk jog—the closest thing to running these heels will allow.

I can’t bear to look back, to see if Jon is watching, or only Mr. Finch is.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Finch,” I whisper, lighter than I’ve felt in a long time.