"Yes. It's me."
"Would you come to the dining room, please?" There were a few seconds of silence, and then I heard footfalls coming closer. When he entered the room I tried not to be discouraged by the expressions that crossed his face. At first, I saw annoyance, more than likely that I'd asked something of him. Then the annoyance gave way to surprise, which eventually turned back into annoyance. I watched as his gaze floated over to the table, taking in the lit candles, the use of our wedding china, the beautiful meal I'd made, and the bottle of expensive wine airing.
"Lena, what is all this?" he asked, as his hand made a sharp jab toward the table and then fell to his side.
"This is the anniversary dinner I made for us," I said with a shaky smile, trying so hard not to sound desperate or false. I attempted to sound like this was something he should have been expecting – his loving wife preparing a delicious meal to celebrate seven years of marriage.
"Lena … " he said, with defeat heavy in his voice. I could fill in the blanks, say the words he was thinking; I'd thought them for so long, too. This is ridiculous. I don't know what you expect from me. What are we doing? How long can we keep this up without ruining our lives? I knew what was running through his mind, but I needed to stop him from uttering the words, because once we said them, once they were out in the open, we could never cover them up again.
"Please, Derrek, sit down. I made your favorite. Beef roast. Just sit." I was begging my husband to have a meal with me.
He sighed heavily, but set his briefcase on the ground near the entryway and sat down at the head of the table. I smiled to myself because this was the first hurdle, and we'd already jumped it and landed on the other side unscathed. I walked to his chair, hoping to catch his eyes admiring me in the dress I bought to impress him.
I was nearly thirty, never had children, and worked very hard to maintain my body. My dress was black, tight, and just a little short. I watched his eyes, hoping they'd roam over me, hoping that seeing him appreciate my form would spark some sort of fire within me.
He never looked at me. He was focused on his plate.
"Did you have a good day at work?" I asked innocently, like it was a question I asked him every evening.
"I suppose. I was busy. Lots of meetings."
"Oh, well, hopefully you'll be able to relax tonight."
I picked up the platter of roast and carried it to him, stood there as he picked up the fork and started serving himself. I took him in, looked over his profile. His hair looked a little messy, which was abnormal for him. He was usually put together, always immaculately pristine. His hard day of work must have stressed him out more than he let on. It looked as if he'd run his hands through his hair all day, undoing any styling he'd invested in this morning before he left the house.
My eyes wandered still lower, along the thickness of his neck. The muscles that ran from his chin down to his shoulders flexed as his jaw clenched. He looked nervous, and I saw his pulse beating rapidly along his throat.
"Are you feeling all right?" I asked, genuinely concerned.
"I'm fine, Lena. Let's just get on with this." I was startled by his rudeness. He was often cold toward me, removed and stiff, but never rude.
I was turning away from him, moving to grab the bowl of roasted potatoes, when my eye spotted something down inside the collar of his shirt. Before I could stop it, my finger involuntarily moved to his collar and pushed it aside gently and I saw more of what had caught my eye to begin with.
"Did you hurt yourself?" I asked, and at the same time, he swatted my hand away from his neck.
"No, I didn't hurt myself. Lena, this is ridiculous. I have things to do."
My mind swirled with different thoughts and feelings as I tried to process everything that was happening. One thing became abundantly clear in that moment: he was hiding something from me. What I had first spotted and assumed was a bruise along his collarbone, I realized, like a bucket of cold water dumped on me unexpectedly, was a hickey.
He stood abruptly, the sound of the chair legs scraping against the travertine tile floors sending shivers down my spine, like nails on a chalkboard. I'd always hated those tile floors.
"Where are you going?" I asked hurriedly, trying to catch him before he made it all the way out of the room. Although, I could guess where he was headed – his office. If he was home and awake, he was usually hiding in there. He knew I had no business being in there, and so that was how he escaped me.
"Like I said, I have things to do." He continued out of the room and I set the platter down, following him.
"What could be more important than having a meal with your wife on your anniversary?" I shouted at him as I followed him through the house, my voice echoing off the walls. I heard him sigh loudly again, but he still walked away from me.
"Lena, don't do this." He had entered his office and sat down at the big chair behind his desk.
"Don't do what? Make you dinner? Ask to spend time with you? Why can't we try to be normal or maybe even happy, just for one night? We used to be happy, Derrek. We used to be in love and happy. I just wanted to try and get a little happiness back tonight."
He was silent for a moment, shuffling papers around on his desk, avoiding my eyes. He moved those papers around, stacking them on one corner of his desk, and then moved them to another corner. He tapped on his keyboard, stared at the screen of his computer like the answers to all the world's problems could be found there. One thing he wouldn't look at was me.
"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.