The Jar

“Could you open this for me?”

That’s all she needed to say. Every time, my chest would broaden, air inflating my lungs as pride inflated my head. Finally, a way I could show my use. So what if she earned the lion’s share of our income? She couldn’t open stuck jars.

Naturally, she’d given it a good go before asking for my help, and I would always joke, “You clearly loosened up for me,” once I’d popped it open with a forceful twist.

This time was different. The jar had been blackened out with paint, and the black lid gave no sign of who owned the factory where it had been sealed. 

A mystery jar.

I spun it. All black… right the way around. 

What did it matter? It needed opening, and I was the man to open it.

The slow shift in weight as I turned it suggested something granular inside, lacking the sloshing of a liquid or the pull of a viscous spread. I felt my clammy palms with my fingertips. Whatever this mystery jar was, I wanted to give it my A-game. Then I could go to her, a big grin on my face—as though it was no big deal—and hand it proudly to her for her to do… whatever she needed the jar opened for.

I snatched at a tea towel from the bench and sandpapered my hands. Then I wrapped my hand around the painted jar, mounting the dimpled circumference of the lid with my other hand, fingers tense, palm flush. I took a deep breath in and…

My dark foe would not budge.

When opening jars, it was a matter of turning the lid just one millimetre. The next five were easier, the next ten easier still, and before you knew it, it was gliding off its thread. But this time, I couldn’t even get that millimetre, so the rest failed to follow.

If a battle of attrition was what it wanted, then that’s what it would get. I puffed out my cheeks and attacked it with a renewed vigour, but gained no ground, my second attempt as successful as my first. 

I smiled and put it down, waving my finger at it like it had impressed me with its stubbornness.

I pulled out my secret weapon. No secret really—it was the same tea towel I’d used before—but this time I wrapped it around the lid and made my third and grandest attempt yet. My knuckles turned white, I clenched my jaw so hard it ached, and I blew farts through my lips, yet the lid failed to give me the millimetre I fought for.

There were other methods, like using hot water or wedging it under an armpit or smashing the damned thing if it came to that, but I’d never had to resort to such pathetic practices. Usually, my mitts were all I needed.

My heart was thundering, and my skin prickled with sweat. Time was ticking. Sooner or later, she would call to me, expecting it open, expecting me to have opened it for her. Then what? I’d stand before her as she entered the kitchen, head bowed, shoulders slumped, unopened jar in-hand like the screwed-up hat of a worker who’d just been made redundant.

No, if I must resort to using more desperate measures, then so be it. I might even get a little amused smile from her, a raised eyebrow when she noticed the warmth left by the hot water as though to say, “That bad, hmm?”

I hurried to the basin and ran the water. For all I knew, she needed what was in this jar urgently and would be calling my name any second. The water heated swiftly, and I ran the top of the jar under it, willing the lid to expand.

Giving it a generous ten seconds, I pulled it out and took to it with the towel again. I couldn’t believe it. It wouldn’t move. Not only that, but after trying so furiously the last three times, my fingers and wrist ached. Every attempt hereafter would be weaker and weaker until my efforts became fruitless and I was forced to admit defeat.

I studied the jar like it was a puzzle that represented my life, the simple mysteries I could never solve that others seemed to pick up like it was nothing.

My pained sigh seemed a cue for my love to enter. Eyes expectant, she smiled. I couldn’t bear to face her. Her frown as she saw the still lidded jar in my hand broke my heart.

“Oh, you couldn’t open it?”

There was a note in her voice I couldn’t place. She didn’t sound disappointed per se; she sounded as if she had expected as much.

“Yeah.” I shrugged and placed it back on the table. “Sorry.”

“Hmm.”

She picked it up, grasped the lid, and with a clockwise twist of her thin wrists, popped it open. No effort, no struggle; it was like she hadn’t even been trying.

I failed to form words as my love patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. You clearly loosened it up for me.”