She had never owned an umbrella in her life. Never even dreamed of it, thought of it, or dared to whisper the possibility of it on a cold, empty morning. Never held newspapers above her head as words seeped through, imprinting her brow. Never clutched at a coat, feverishly dashing from one soaked doorstep to another. Never donned a hood, a cloak, a hat, or a handkerchief. And certainly never, NEVER, owned an umbrella.

“It just made me think of you.”

“It’s lovely.” The smile froze on her face as she scrutinized the umbrella, held it at arm’s length at the neck, like a snake or a bag of doggie doodie. It was an ugly looking Mary Poppins sort of thing. The kind of thing that women were made of. British women. Uptight British women. Uptight British women who owned umbrellas.

“You know me so well, Frank.” She turned towards her husband and hurled the duck-headed stick onto the bed. “I just simply adore it."

***

That was the first time. And the only time. Up until that moment their marriage had been perfect. Frank, being of devilishly good luck, had managed never to upset his benevolent wife. He never crunched on his ice cubes when his drink was empty. He never stuck his sunglasses on the top of his head like some fraudulent "GQ" model, some leather- skinned, manicured freak. He never bought her champagne, roses, alfalfa sprouts, gummy bears, or shoe polish. He didn’t whistle. He didn’t sing. He didn’t hum, snort, or cough. He never, in fact, seemed to get sick. Which was quite fortunate considering that she hated sick people. All of them. Yes, the relationship as a whole had been very lucky. It wasn’t so much that she liked Frank as that she could tolerate him. Not one step, look, or gesture made her hands clench or her muscles cringe. He was, all in all, quite a catch.

But this THING. This ugly, upright, snot-nosed, shit blue little thing with ooh a real oak handle. This thing plagued her. Mocked and chided her. It was disgraceful. It called to her blithely as she rushed out the door. “I say, Madam. Couldn’t we come to some sort of an agreement?” She shook her head violently and slammed the front door behind her with grim determination. The next afternoon it attempted to bribe her as she trotted out for her twelve o’clock arm waxing. “I make a lovely soufflé!” She stared it down and then, shuddering from the sheer weight of its pure evil heart, ran frantically to her car. That evening its tactics had become a bit less subdued. “Look toots. What’s your fucking problem? I’m tryin’ to be nice here, so can you cut me a break?” It was clear that something had to be done.

***

She tried simply throwing it away. “Look what I found in the trash can, honey. You must have dropped it last week by accident. Good thing I found it.” Frank handed her the THING like a smiling golden retriever. She thanked him with disgust.

She tried burning it that weekend while Frank was off playing miniature golf. She had just gotten a nice bonfire going in the backyard when the THING started quacking. It was squealing and wheezing, sneezing and coughing from the smoke.

“Stop that coughing!” She screamed, clasping her hands to her ears as she doubled over onto the grass. “If there’s one thing I hate more than umbrellas, it’s coughing umbrellas! Now stop it, before I throw you in there head first.” She throttled the THING which, upon noticing her discomfort, proceeded to cough louder and raspier, rolling the phlegm around its throat with relish.

“Whatchya gonna do now lady, huh? I can’t believe you got beaten by an umbrella.”

She staggered to her feet, and reached for the hose. “All right, that’s it.” She tried watering it to death, which didn’t seem to work either.

“That’s for plants, stupid! I am an umbrella. Like, it’s my job to protect people from water? Jesus, don’t you know anything?”

She scrambled into the tool shed and emerged with a cherry handled axe, wielding it desperately as it trembled in her hands.

“Oh, right. Like that’s gonna do anything. Look, if you want to chop something, you gotta do it from the top, not the side. You’re gonna be hitting with the dull edge of the blade here. Wouldn’t split a walnut.”

She scurried off in frustration and returned with a gun.

“Safety’s on.”

A bat.

“It’s the metal kind.”

A hammer.

“Rubber sole.”

A shoe.

“Gimme a fuckin’ break.”

She sulked into the house trailing the gold running shoe behind her, the laces gathering twigs and dust into knots.

“You’re just gonna leave me out here?! What’ll Frank say?”

She let the door lock behind her, as she collapsed onto the beige, carpeted floor. She had, indeed, got beaten by an umbrella.

***

That evening she was thoroughly kind and docile, pacified by the knowledge of her eminent freedom. She poured Frank’s seven o’clock tea with affection. Randomly paused behind him to fix his tie. And she even left messes around the house for him to clean up (a joy she had deprived him of for almost a month now.) But by the time dinner had been eaten, dishes left to soak and stagnate, she was ready to do the deed.

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, honey,” Frank called from behind his coffee- stained newspaper. “Good thing I got you that umbrella.” He playfully knuckled her chin, and then glancing at the umbrella stand, began to frown. “Huh. Where’d it go? Did you lose it again?”

“Actually, Frank. I’ve been meaning to talk to about that. I don’t want it.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t want it. I tried burning it, and chopping it, and- I even tried watering it, but nothing-“

“You tried what?”

She folded her hands with resolve and composed herself. “Look, Frank. I’m not going to argue with you. I’ve made my decision and that’s pretty much it. There’s nothing to discuss.” She handed him the papers nonchalantly, a piece of bubble gum smugly stuck to the bottom. “Oh, sorry.” She whisked the pink goo away, and popped it, effortlessly, into her mouth.

“What are these?”

“Divorce papers.”

“But, why-?”

“Look, Frank, I told you. No discussion.” And with that she turned firmly on her heel, marching towards the door, stopping momentarily to pull a pre-packed knapsack out of the hallway closet.

“Oh, and Frank?”

“Uh- yeah?” He stared at her in bewilderment.

“You can keep your umbrella. That little stick- faced duck is not my problem any more. Out of my hands.” And with that, she was gone.

At the sound of her wheels scraping the driveway Frank sighed in relief and stretched his legs out onto the cedar coffee table in front of him.

“Finally.” He whipped out the gummy bears, planted the pitch black Miami Vice sunglasses squarely on top of his head and proceeded to hum the entire score of “La Boheme". He was free, at last.

True, the umbrella might have been a little bit cruel. A little extreme. A little bit much. But something had to be done. The minute he had seen her gurgling her mouthwash two months ago, he knew that things just weren’t going to work. Until then she had done everything right. Everything. But that STUFF, well she just couldn’t seem to get enough of it. After that first time, it was every day. And then twice a day. And then two times in the morning and two times at night. It was enough to drive a man mad. And the things it had said to him, that STUFF. Oh, granted, initially it had been polite, but after a week or two it was like, “Hey, Mac. Wanna try a chug?" Foul. Indiscreet. Absurd. No, it was clear that something had to be done. And, besides, he reasoned to himself, sometimes you’ve just got to draw the line. Sometimes enough is... enough.