Two
952 Words
As I listened to the hushed sounds of their Moans, I felt my shock shift into disgust at the ugly sight of their bodies.
How had I never noticed how ugly we looked while having s*x.
Cathy wasn’t exaggerating. They really did look like warthogs…in heat. The environment didn’t help either.
The disgust morphed into pure rage.
I picked up some stones. I was going to confront them.
I was going to stone them until I drew blood.
As I bent down to pick up some stones, I felt a hand grab me, making me fall almost forward.
It was Cathy.
She steadied me immediately.
“Shhh.” She said putting her index finger to her mouth.
For an old woman she had insane strength. I tried yanking it away so I’d continue my mission but she gave me a stern warning stare.
“Do you want to ruin yourself?” I didn’t know what she meant by that but it looked like she did.
With my arm still tightly in her grip, she dragged me silently back to the forest jogging trail.
“What is wrong with you?” I yelled at her.
“I’m trying to save you.” She said hunching over slightly out of breath.
“Save me? From my cheating husband?”
She stood up straight and looked at me quizzically, hands on hips. “Tell me Emily, apart from being a stay at home wife, what other prospects do you have for yourself?” I looked away.
“Talents?” I looked down.
I didn’t have anything. I’d never even worked a day in my life.
“Good.” Cathy said. “Jog with me.” She started on the way that took back home.
I followed suit.
“Talk me through your morning routine with your husband.”
“What?”
She looked at me questioningly.
“Uh…well I usually wake up before him to work out. Then I make his breakfast.”
“You don’t have breakfast together?”
“No, while he has breakfast I prepare whatever he wants to take with him for work. His clothes, I put all his paperwork in his briefcase, make sure his car keys are accessible. Stuff like that.”
“How about now?”
“Now?”
“After your miscarriage.”
“Oh. I still carry on normally.”
“And he lets you?”
“No he doesn’t ‘let me’. I enjoy catering to him. Besides if I stop I have a feeling it will throw me off when I resume.”
“Let me rephrase that. He doesn’t try to stop you? From exerting energy that could be used for recovery from the physiological changes you went through, on catering to him?”
I’d never really thought about it.
But when Cathy had mentioned it, it occurred to me he had never actually stopped me.
Except that first time I miscarried. After a week I’d resumed the routine.
From the second miscarriage onwards, he didn’t try. In fact he sort of expected it.
He’d woken me up after I miscarried the second time at five months and told me he wanted bacon and eggs for breakfast and English tea not orange juice.
He’d asked that in the snack box I add mini blue berry muffins which we did not have at that time because of course I’d miscarried the day before and I was weakened to bake.
When I told him that, he’d yelled at me and called me incompetent and told me probably my brain was catching up with my aging ovaries, then stomped out.
I’d convinced myself he was grieving the miscarriage.
People grieved differently. That was his way.
“If I don’t feed him. He will forget to feed himself. Besides without me to cater to him he’d be so lost.” I’d attempted to defend myself but it came out weak.
Cathy had continued.
“Hm. Tell me about your morning banter.”
“We don’t have any.”
“Every couple has banter—even the ones with cheating spouses. Things they says to each before they leave for work. Take Mrs Shire for example.”
“Well we say our good mornings. He comes for his jog, immediately hops in the shower, dressed up and sits down for his breakfast.”
“No pass me the salt, sugar, ketchup, anything.”
“No. I usually put all the condiments on the table. Sometimes he asks for orange juice or a glass of water.”
“You don’t talk about the weather,how his jog was or the latest political climate?”
I shook my head no.
“He never really talks to me as much as he used to. But if I have an errand to run, I inform him. Usually he just nods and continues scrolling through his phone.”
“Then?”
“Then when he’s done he grabs his coat and briefcase and car keys and says have a good day.”
“No kisses?”
I shook my head no again. “It’s been a while.”
By this time, we had arrived at my drive way.
“Listen Emily, I understand that you’re extremely emotional and sensitive. You’re hurting. And it’s okay to hurt. But for the love of you, don’t throw off your routine. Get in there, make the pancakes like you usually do, cater to him. Maintain the small talk but don’t show any sign that you know. Okay?”
I nodded. Tears collecting in my eyes.
“Hey I’ll be there for you. When he is gone I’m going to come and then you can cry about it.”
- Writer
