Corroded Moonlight

Chapter 2: A Silent Dinner

At six-thirty in the evening, Eleanor pulled her car into the garage. The garage door descended slowly, shutting out the last of the twilight clamour, sealing her and the house together in a large, silent box.

This house was her and Michael's pride, the physical evidence of their marital success. It sat in a quiet suburban neighbourhood, with a perfectly manicured lawn and a spotless white picket fence. The interior had been curated by a professional designer, with cool-toned walls, minimalist furniture, and every decorative object placed exactly where it was supposed to be. It was as perfect as a showroom from an interior design magazine—beautiful, expensive, yet lifeless.

Eleanor stepped inside, kicking off the high heels she’d been standing in all day and slipping into soft slippers. The house was empty, so quiet you could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator. The scent of lemon cleaner lingered in the air, a trace of the housekeeper's visit that morning. Everything was in perfect order, lacking only the warmth that makes a house a home.

She placed her handbag on the entryway cabinet, her gaze sweeping over the large wedding photograph on the wall. In the picture, she was smiling, a radiant, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes with happiness as she leaned against Michael. The Michael in the photo was smiling too, his eyes holding something she once knew so well: love. Back then, they believed they were each other's forever.

Forever.

Eleanor chewed on the word, a bitter taste filling her mouth. What was forever? Was it the suffocating silence in this house now? Or the wordless dinners, day after day?

She walked into the kitchen, a modern, open-plan space with a full suite of top-of-the-line appliances. The cold stainless-steel countertops were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting her blurry, tired figure. She moved with practiced ease, taking out the ingredients she had prepped last night—marinated steak, washed asparagus, and a bag of organic mixed greens.

Cooking was no longer a pleasure for her, but a task to be completed, a part of playing the role of the 'dutiful wife.' Her movements were precise and mechanical, like a pre-programmed robot. Turn on the stove, heat the pan, add the oil. When the steak hit the hot pan, the sizzle was the only vibrant, living sound in the house. The aroma of meat filled the air, but even its warmth couldn't dispel the chill in her heart.

Her conversation with Chloe replayed in her mind, along with her own reply—a word that felt as light as air but as heavy as lead.

"Okay."

That single word, like a stone dropped into still water, was still sending ripples through her. She felt a long-forgotten excitement, tinged with guilt. It had been so long since she had made a decision for herself. Her life, her everything, seemed to revolve around Michael's needs and expectations. She wore the colours he liked, cooked the dishes he preferred, and socialised with the friends he deemed 'tasteful.' She was like a manicured bonsai, stripped of all potential for wild growth, existing only to please the observer.

Tonight, she wanted to be a wild weed.

Even if only for a few hours.

The steak was seared perfectly, crisp on the outside and a tempting pink within. She quickly sautéed the asparagus with olive oil and sea salt, then arranged the plates. Every step was flawless, just as it had been every day for the past five years. She carried the two plates to the dining room, where the table was already set with a clean tablecloth, gleaming silverware, and wine glasses.

She glanced at the wall clock. 7:15 PM. Michael was usually home at 7:30, sharp. His life was like a fine Swiss watch, every gear fitting perfectly, with no room for deviation or surprise.

And her 'prison break' plan for tonight was undoubtedly a grain of sand in his precision machine.

She sat in her chair, waiting. Time ticked by, each movement of the vintage clock's hands striking a nerve. She could hear her own heartbeat, a heavy, distinct thud. In her mind, she rehearsed what was about to happen. How should she bring it up? Should she be direct—"I'm going out with Chloe tonight"—or try a more delicate approach?

No, why should she be delicate? It wasn’t as if she were doing something wrong.

But she knew Michael. In his world, anything unplanned, anything outside of his control, was a challenge to his sense of order.

At 7:30 PM, the sound of a key in the front door lock came right on schedule.

Eleanor’s heart leaped. She instinctively straightened her back, like a soldier awaiting inspection.

Michael walked in. He took off his suit jacket, hanging it casually on the coat rack with fluid, elegant movements. He wore a light-blue shirt, his tie loosened slightly, betraying a hint of fatigue. But his posture remained erect, impeccable. He saw Eleanor at the table and the dinner waiting, his face showing no particular emotion. He simply nodded, a greeting that was almost formulaic.

"I'm home," he said, his voice flat, devoid of feeling.

"Welcome home," Eleanor replied, her voice just as calm.

He went into the washroom, and soon the sound of running water followed. He was washing away the grime of the outside world, she knew, and also washing away any emotions he might bring into the house. He was always like that, keeping his work and life completely separate. But it was that very separation that had built an invisible wall between them.

A few minutes later, Michael sat down at the other end of the long mahogany table, which could have seated four more people between them. He picked up his knife and fork, glanced at the steak, and cut a small piece.

"Cooked perfectly," he commented, more like a food critic scoring a dish than a husband tasting the dinner his wife had made for him.

"I'm glad you like it," Eleanor said softly.

Then came the silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

The only sounds in the dining room were the crisp clicks of silverware against porcelain plates. The sounds were magnified in the quiet, becoming jarringly loud. Eleanor kept her head down, cutting her food into small bites. She could feel Michael's gaze, not on her, but on the phone screen beside his plate. The light from the screen illuminated the side of his face, making his already sharp features appear even colder. He was replying to work emails, even at the dinner table.

Eleanor’s heart sank.

She felt like an invisible person. Or worse, a well-trained waitress at a fine dining restaurant. She had provided the perfect food and created an elegant atmosphere, and now she was expected to retreat quietly so as not to disturb the 'guest.'

She suddenly remembered when they first got together. They were living in a cramped apartment near the university, their dining table a wobbly folding one. They would eat simple pasta while chattering excitedly about their day. He would steal the last meatball from her plate, and she would laugh and smack his hand. The air then had been warm, filled with laughter and the smell of food.

When did it all change?

Was it after his first promotion, when they moved into this big house? Or was it as he got busier and came home later and later? She couldn't remember. The change had been gradual, like a frog in slowly boiling water. By the time she finally felt the pain, she was powerless to jump out.

A strange courage, or perhaps it was desperation, rose from the bottom of her heart.

She set down her knife and fork. The soft sound made Michael finally look up from his phone. He frowned, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at being interrupted.

"Michael," Eleanor began, her voice a little hoarse. "I… I made plans with Chloe. I'm going out for a little while tonight."

She watched his face intently, searching for any hint of an emotional response.

Michael’s frown deepened. He put down his phone and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, the movement still graceful and proper. "Tonight? On a Monday?" His tone was thick with obvious disbelief. "Don't you have an important meeting tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, I know." Eleanor’s hands clenched into fists under the table, her nails digging into her palms. "I won't be back too late."

"Chloe?" A trace of contempt crossed Michael's lips. "Her again. Eleanor, I've told you, you should spend more time with more… substantial friends. Like Mrs. Smith—"

"She is my best friend," Eleanor interrupted him. Her voice was quiet but firm. It was the first time she had ever contradicted him when he judged her friends.

The air seemed to freeze.

Michael was clearly surprised by her defiance. He looked at her, and the eyes that once held so much love were now filled with scrutiny and a cold distance. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he just tugged at the corner of his mouth in a humourless smile.

"Fine, since you've already decided." He picked up his knife and fork again, his tone returning to its previous flatness, as if their brief confrontation had never happened. "Don't get too wild."

With that, he looked away from her, his attention returning to the food on his plate.

It was a coldness more hurtful than an argument.

His words were a cold blade that slid precisely into her heart. What he meant was, Go. I don't care. Your decisions, your friends, your happiness—they have nothing to do with me.

Eleanor felt a slight tremor run through her body. She couldn't eat another bite. Her stomach felt like it was filled with a cold stone. She stood up silently and began to clear her plate.

"I'm finished," she said.

Michael did not respond.

She carried her plate to the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher. With her back to the dining room, a tear finally escaped and rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand, allowing no one, not even herself, to see this moment of weakness.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Then, she turned, walked up the stairs, and went to their bedroom.

Her steps were remarkably steady.

Tonight, she had to go out.

It was no longer just about a short break. It was about rebellion.

A silent rebellion against a silent dinner.