“You can’t ignore me, Derrek. I’m your wife.”
“I’m aware of that fact,” he mumbled, sounding angry.
“What was that mark I saw under your shirt collar, Derrek?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“Lena, please…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”
“I spent all day trying to think of how I could surprise you for our anniversary, trying to think of ways to get back that spark we use to have between us, and you come home with a hickey under your shirt.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said under his breath.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then take off your shirt.”
He paused, obviously not expecting me to say those words. I hadn’t asked him to take off any piece of clothing in months. Perhaps even over a year. I’d have to really think about it to come up with a solid answer.
“Lena, please, let’s stop deluding ourselves,” he finally replied, finally lifted his eyes to look me straight in mine.
“I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I know what I saw.”
“Our marriage, the part of our relationship where we have meals together or spend time alone together, is over. It’s been over for a long time now. You know it. I know it. I’m content with the way things are now.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s over’?” I gasped.
“We haven’t behaved like a married couple for years now, Lena. Out in the public eye, we continue to hold up the image of our marriage, but here – in this house – our marriage fell apart long ago.”
I agreed with him, knew what he was saying to be true, but I didn’t think it was a lost cause, didn’t think it was doomed. He sounded like it was dead and gone. I just felt like it needed some work – could be resuscitated.
“So let’s fix it,” I cried.
“We can’t. It’s too late.”
“So, what? You want a divorce? You’re going to leave me?” The image of that hickey flashed into my mind. “You’re having an affair?”
“I am not having an affair.” His voice was cold and stone-like. His affirmation was almost like a gust of chilling wind; it hit me hard and made me shiver. “I am, however, going back to the office. It’s abundantly clear I won’t be able to get any work done here tonight.”
I watched as he stood again and walked right past me, walking back toward the dining room. He retrieved his briefcase and walked toward the front door. When I heard it open and then subsequently slam shut, I felt the loud sounds vibrate through me, and felt a little crack form in the façade I’d been wearing for what seemed like forever. It seemed as if, in one thirty minute window, we’d moved from pretending our marriage was fine to acknowledging its failure, but I was still left wallowing in confusion.
I walked slowly to the dining room, mindlessly clearing the table, just going through the motions while my mind reeled.
What were we to do? Just continue on this path of sharing a house but sharing nothing besides? My hands dipped in and out of the warm, soapy water, washing the dishes, rinsing them, and then setting them on the rack to dry. We had a dishwasher, but washing them by hand calmed me.
I didn’t want a marriage of convenience, but from his words, it seemed like Derrek had thrown in the towel and wanted nothing to do with me. Well, aside from a companion to accompany him to work functions and parties. He wanted to hold up the appearance of our marriage, but drop the charade at the door.
I saw a tear drop into the dishwater. Not realizing I was crying, the tear caught me off guard. Once I saw the first one fall, however, the rest were not far behind.
This was not where I wanted to be, wasn’t how I envisioned my life to be at twenty-nine. When I married Derrek, I was sure we’d be happy forever. Sure, I suspected we’d have difficult times, trying times, but I thought we’d work together to get past them. I never would have imagined that one day Derrek would tell me our marriage was over, that the real part – the loving part – had been lost.
Then there was the hickey he denied.
Of everything that happened, the hickey was the least of my worries. Well, it would have been if he’d owned up to it. We couldn’t work past a problem if he didn’t admit to it, and I would gladly, at this point, look past any transgressions on his part if he’d just agree to be my husband again.
I cried because he didn’t want me and I cried because I still wanted him. I wanted my marriage. I wanted the future I’d signed up for so many years ago, and I didn’t think it was fair that someone else could make those decisions for me. Didn’t I get a say in how our future played out?