Papers of Silence.
2493 Words
I stare at the white paper filled with black-inked words, tongue-tied and blank, too stunned as if I’d been electrocuted.
I blink many times before looking up at Lucian, who still stands by the fridge, gulping water like he’d survived days without it. I raise my brows in question.
“What is this, Lucian?” I ask coolly.
He says nothing and walks out of the kitchen. My irritation flares, the food and gift box forgotten.
I hurry out after him, grasping the hem of his sleeve. “What’s going on? Why are you not saying anything?”
He pauses, looks down at where I hold him, and shrugs me off. The act breaks my heart, my eyes sting. A painful lump forms in my throat as the realization dawns.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper the words through the lump, vision blurring.
He sighs as if I’m a burden, “Read the papers. It won’t excite you, but it’ll put this circus in perspective.”
Taken aback, I let him go. It’s the most words he’d spoken this week… what did he mean by flux? He said I understand him the most, and he’d try to love me every breathing moment. Did he mean it when he said that?
Who wakes up and dumps divorce papers on their wife? Is he having a bad time at work? Is that it?
I crumble to the floor, tears rolling down my face, I wrap my hands around my knee, wondering why he doesn’t talk to me. Why doesn’t he say anything at all, except that he needs to get something? It’s always work, work, work… or, is there another woman?
A wheezy laugh escapes me. Until a robot bleeds human blood, Lucian cannot have another woman.
It’s impossible. But the thought still lingers. He was half a virgin when we consummated the marriage six months ago. How can there ever be another woman?
My rumbling stomach zaps me out of my daze, and I realize the news is making me ache all over. Clumsily, I rise to my feet and make my way to the kitchen.
Maybe it’s all a dream. A very scary dream that feels so real. I’ll eat and sleep it off. Then slap myself when I wake up and tell myself not to dream like this.
I pause as I enter the kitchen, staring and breathing hard in indignation, at the papers that spoiled my perfect evening.
My left arm swings over the counter, sending the papers flying in the air. Then I dish out a good portion of pasta on my plate and sit, stuffing it angrily in my mouth.
Tuesday, March, 16th.
It wasn’t a dream when I woke the next morning. The papers were still there when I entered to brew a cup of coffee.
The words Lucian spoke yesterday come back with full force and I lose my appetite instantly.
This is real.
It’s all real. Lucian wants a divorce. He wants nothing to do with me. I’m invisible to him now. How long has he wanted this?
Is this why he’s never around? Why does he give himself to work like it’ll be the death of him?
He can’t love someone else; he’s married.
The questions cause my chest to ache, a headache forms and brews from the centre of my head.
I curl myself up on the sofa in the dim-lit living room, thinking and staring at the place I managed to bring to life in over a year, so he would grow into the colours.
Multi-coloured throw pillows on the long, white, and black, comfy L-shaped cushions, a large fur rug in the centre of the room, white linen curtains to dim the harsh sunrays, black-white paintings on the walls, and a huge white potted plant by the far left side of the room.
Does he like them? Or he endured it since it was in the plan to dispose of me.
Lucian comes home by one pm.
We say nothing to each other, but I just stare at him as he rushes to change, to go for another meeting, or to meet someone else.
I order pot roast when he leaves, then I decide to do a total clean-up on the apartment, to get my mind busy with something.
By six, Lucian returns in his usual crisp attire: black coat on white, with a faint smile on his lips.
I pause.
Lucian is smiling at nothing.
It bugs me as I watch him walk to the kitchen for a bottle of water. I clutch my mop stick to hold on to reality, widening my eyes.
I didn’t imagine it. He was definitely smiling. I slap my fist on my chest to relieve the choking hold, but it does nothing to stop the tears from falling.
He doesn’t say anything to me for three days.
I‘ve been in a messy daze, but he says nothing to me. I notice he’d arranged the papers and had placed them on my bedside this morning.
The image of Lucian smiling glues and replays in my mind all day. Something’s really going on. And he won’t tell me.
My phone rings and Maya appears on the caller ID. Reluctantly, I swipe right and place it on my ear, rising from the bed. Half of my awareness is on Lucian, who’s bathing in the shower.
“Hello, Princess Diane,” she says once I answer, and a soft smile plays on my lips.
She purposely uses her fake British accent to mock Lucian’s, and I remember when she started using this phrase to remind me I was locked in the apartment, ‘My high tower.’
I miss her.
“Hey, what’s up?” I try to sound casual.
“Nothing… just that I happen to be in town for a few days, is all.”
My smile immediately turns to a grin, then a laugh. Finally, some good news. “Really? You’re really back?”
I pace the floor to the walk-in closet; aware Lucian is listening on this.
“I’m going to pretend that I don’t hear how you miss me so much in that voice. You sound weird. You alright?”
My gloom returns a bit, but I’m really happy. “Yeah, I am.”
“How’s that robotic husband of yours, still fecking his company?”
I don’t know when I pause but she doesn’t miss it. “Babe? You there?”
I nod, “Oh, yeah… uh, I just remembered something.”
“How about a girl’s night? I’ll order pizza and your favourite wine, while you tell me what’s up. You down for that?”
“Sure,” anything to take me out of this hellhole.
“It’s a deal. Bring something for me while you’re at it. I have lots of gossip for you.”
My smile returns, “Sure you do. See you tonight.” I say then hang up.
Lucian walks out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his pale muscled chest and dark hair dripping water.
At the same time, a message notification flashes on his phone where he kept it, and I glance at it from the corner of my eye.
He quickly grabs it and turns to me, his eyes calm and steady. “Stepping out?”
I merely nod, staring at the phone in his hand, then back at his face. He nods once and leaves me alone in the wide room, while I stare at his retreating figure.
What the hell was that?
I can’t shake it as I step out of the elevator later in the evening, strolling to the building’s front door with a picnic basket in hand, and an overnight Louis Vuitton handbag draped over my blue soft dress.
What is he hiding like that? Does he love her that much? Doesn’t he feel bad for me at least?
“Staying the night out, Mrs. Stone?” Daniel asks, offering me a single red rose.
My cheeks immediately warm. Of course, he’d know my love for flowers by now. “Aw, you didn’t have to Daniel.” But I take it, and inhale.
“I knew you’d love it. I kept it specially for you.” His raspy voice booms at me. Then he politely points at my bags.
“Oh… yeah,” I say and flash a smile at him as a black taxi pulls up in front of the building.
“You’re not driving?” A mask of concern coats his face.
I frown slightly. I don’t want Lucian to know my exact location or be able to trace me.
I shake my head at Daniel and he leaves it, in understanding.
The night wind whips my hair over my face as I step into the open air. I shudder from the chill; I should’ve worn a jacket or something.
“Nolita. 152 Elizabeth Street,” I tell the driver when I enter the cab, and he takes off.
I try to wrap my head around it during the fifteen-minute drive. How do I make him know how much I love him? Is he secretly meeting her tonight? I wonder as I remember how he dashed out since morning and didn’t return till I left.
Is she prettier? Has he slept with her yet? Should I know?
I swallow at the thought of another woman giving Lucian pleasures he’s yet to explore with me.
I shake my head to clear the fog of worries when we approach Maya’s building. She’ll prod till I tell her everything if she sees me like this.
I breathe in and exhale loudly, telling myself to forget Lucian and enjoy my time with my college best friendoommate, who’s currently pursuing graduate degrees in art.
“Ay, if it isn’t… what in the deuces are you wearing?”
Her smile disappears as she assesses my dress. She looks the same: dark curly hair, brown eyes, petite frame in a black oversized sweatshirt and shorts.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Are you starring in a Bridgerton series?” she peers out of her apartment door, looking sideways for cameras, I guess. “Are you deranged?”
I roll my eyes at her dramatic questions, “Are you going to just stare at me like that?” I ask, putting my picnic basket down and stretching my arms for her.
“Oh, come here.” She drags me to herself and envelops me in a rib-cracking embrace. I feel myself relax. This feels good.
Her coconut scent tingles my nostrils and I sigh in satisfaction. “I miss you, girl.”
“I know, I know.” She rubs my back before detaching from the hug. “So, what’s really up with you and Mr. English?”
I momentarily freeze. “Nothing,” quick, deflect! “The pizza’s still hot? I’m starving.”
She eyes me suspiciously, but lets it go. “When has the pizza ever been hot?” she asks leading the way into her space.
Inside, my mouth falls open, my eyes wide, staring at what she’d done to her apartment again. “May’s…” I breathe out, aching to have been part of this.
If there’s one thing I learnt from Maya in college, it was interior decoration.
A black art wall acrylic decal, like an actual family tree, dominates the huge wall behind her settee, showcasing a montage of drawings and paintings she collected.
Her couches were mismatched colours of white, hot pink, black, and army green that brought out the beauty of the room. Throw pillows, shaped in bunnies and popcorn, give me an idea I may never implement at home.
The hallway to the left, was lined with artworks displayed on polished shelves against immaculate walls.
Take a popcorn pillow and plop down on the sofa, watch her in her open kitchen, located on the right side of the apartment.
Everything screams her name. I drag in a deep breath and sigh, locking eyes with her for a second as she prepares our food. “You miss me that much, huh?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, laughing at her remark. Always too full of herself. “So, what’s going on with you these days?”
She pops her shoulders, “Just anything that tickles my fancy.”
“Owuhh,” I wiggle my brows at her, “David’s still tickling your fancy, I see.”
She pauses, frowning at me. “Babe, I broke up with that dim wit two months ago. How do you not remember that?”
I quirk my head, my body mirrors my sudden movement. “Seriously?”
“What do you mean seriously, girl I told you right outta the hotel in Puerto Rico!”
“You did?”
She eyes me again, “Sure you aren’t deranged or something? I could call you a therapist.”
I laugh awkwardly at her, and stretch on the sofa, wondering how I could forget something like that. She brings the snacks over: ice cream, pizza with pot roast, and a litre of orange juice—the royal-usual.
“Cheers,” we say in unison with our ice creams, leaning back into the couch, we settle for the Bridgerton series—touché.
The movie brings out fantasies I’ve hidden for so long, things I wanted to explore with Lucian. Losing interest, I close my eyes, preparing to doze.
“What are you doing?” she asks, turning the lights on.
“Sleeping? What?”
“You going to tell me what’s wrong now, or you want me to spank it outta you?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, hesitating for a bit. “Lucian wants a divorce.”
“What? He finally has feelings?”
I whip my head sharply, swallowing. “You think there’s another woman?”
She draws close, “Of course, did he say why?”
I shake my head, a new lump forming in my throat, my eyes stinging afresh.
“You hopeless romantic,” she coos and holds my sobbing self, close. “What are you going to do, babe?”
“I don’t know. I love him so much… he knows. I don’t know why he’s doing this to me,” sniff. “What am I going to do?” I repeat the question to myself.
“You need to find out why he’s doing this, and if it’s what he wants, you need to find closure.”
I blow my nose in the tissue she gives me. “He doesn’t talk to me about anything.”
I feel her pause, “I don’t know too, but don’t go snooping around those old rich folks. You know how they be—touch their cat, they sue you.”
An odd idea forms in my head.
- Writer
