He’s working late tonight, or so he said. She’s waiting by the door, seated on the lounge with her legs crossed. She’s trying to look casual but her mind is spinning and she can’t tell if she’s succeeding. A wine glass sits in her lap. The last few drops have made their way to the ironed crease of her pants, leaving an unattractive red stain. The bottle on the kitchen counter is empty. She can vaguely recall it being half-empty at some point, but the memory is hazy.
Did someone drink the rest?
The thought agitates her, and worsens her already sour mood.
She’s been sitting in silence for hours. She’s worried that when she finally speaks, her voice is going to crack and make her sound weak. The silence is so loud that it hums, like an electric current. She can’t be the one to break it.
The front door slams open and crashes into the adjacent wall. She has the faint thought that this problem could easily be fixed with a doorstop, but it floats away before she can grasp it. A man steps through the frame, swinging his briefcase like an overgrown toddler. She knows this man is familiar, but she can’t quite place him.
The man smiles at her, confusion in his eyes at her position.
He tells her it’s late and that she should be in bed.
Oh yes.
This man is her husband. She remembers him now. There was something she wanted to say, a reason that she was waiting for him.
What was it?
Her husband frowns at her silence. He glances around the open room and his eyes rest on a spot behind her, where that empty wine bottle sits. The disapproving glare he gives her is horribly embarrassing. If only she could explain how it happened. If only the bottle was half-empty, then he wouldn’t be wearing that awful expression. But he turns away and walks to the kitchen counter, throwing the bottle in the trash without even looking at where it lands. The bottle shatters against the can and slices the trash bag open. She’ll have to clean that up in the morning.
He’s expecting a reaction. All she can muster is his name, and her voice is timid and cracking. He walks back to her, his steps cold and harsh until they are only a few feet apart. She tenses at the close proximity, but he reaches for her face and gently cups her chin. There’s pity in his gaze. She somehow hates it even more than the anger. She can see her own reflection in his eyes, small and fragile. That must be how she looks to him. Maybe that’s how she looks to everyone.
A tear drifts down her cheek and catches on his thumb. Her lip starts to tremble and the man pulls her into an embrace. She breathes into his neck, trying to compose herself, but a flowery scent floats into her nostrils and her legs give out beneath her. He holds her like she weighs nothing. She shuts her eyes, thinking of the half-empty wine bottle as he hoists her into his arms and takes her to sleep.
▲
