glass out of his way with the shoes already on his feet. He walks out the front door.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. All I know is that this might, in fact, be the end of my marriage. It might be the end of something I thought had no ending.
• • •
I stare at the door for a while after Ryan leaves. I can’t believe that I have thrown a vase at the wall. I can’t believe that the crushed mess of glass on the floor is because of me. I wasn’t intending to hurt him. I didn’t throw it at him. And yet the violence of it startles me. I didn’t know I was capable of it.
Eventually, I stand up and go to the kitchen and get the broom and the dust pan. I put on a pair of shoes. I start to sweep it all up. As I do, Thumper comes running into the room, and I have to tell him to stop where he is. He listens and sits, watching me. The clink of the pieces against one another as they hit the trash can are almost soothing. Brush. Brush. Clink.
I grab a few paper towels and run them over the area to mop up any remaining shards and water, and then I vacuum. I’m hesitant to stop vacuuming, because I don’t know what I’m going to do after I’m done. I don’t know what to do with myself.
I put everything away and lie down on the bed. I am reminded of when we bought it, why we bought it.
What happened to us?
I can hear a voice in my head, speaking crisply and clearly. I don’t love him anymore. That’s what it says. I don’t love him anymore. And maybe more heartbreaking is the fact that I know, deep down, he doesn’t love me, either.
It all clicks into place. That’s what all of this is, isn’t it? That’s what the fighting is. That’s why I disagree with everything he says. That’s why I can’t stand all the things I used to stand. That’s why we haven’t been having sex. That’s why we never try hard to please each other. That’s why we are never pleased with each other.
Ryan and I are two people who used to be in love.
What a beautiful thing to have been.
What a sad thing to be.
R yan must have returned late at night or early in the morning. I don’t know which. I didn’t wake up when he came home.
When I do wake up, he is on the other side of the bed, Thumper in between us. Ryan’s back is facing me. He is snoring. It scares me that we are able to sleep during this sort of turmoil. I think of the way it used to be, the way fights used to keep us up all night and into the morning. The way we couldn’t sleep on our anger, couldn’t put it on hold. Now we are on the verge of defeat and . . . he’s snoring.
I wait patiently for him to wake up. When he finally does, he doesn’t say anything to me. He stands up and walks to the bathroom. He goes to the kitchen and brews himself a cup of coffee and gets back into bed. He is next to me but not beside me. We are both in this bed, but we are not sharing it.
“We’re not in love anymore,” I say. Just the sound of it coming out of my mouth makes my skin crawl and my adrenaline run. I am shaking.
Ryan stares at me for a moment, no doubt shocked, and then he pulls his hands to his face, burying his fingers in his hair. He is a handsome man. I wonder when I stopped seeing that.
When we got married, he was almost prettier than I was on our wedding day. Our wedding pictures, where he is smiling like a young boy, his eyes crinkled and bright like stars, were beautiful, in part, because he was beautiful. But he no longer seems exceptional to me.
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Ryan says, not looking up, not moving his head from his hands. He is frozen, staring at the blanket beneath him.
“Why?” I ask him, suddenly eager to hear what he thinks, desperate to know if maybe he remembers something I don’t, to know if he thinks I am wrong. Because maybe he can convince me. Maybe I am wrong. I want to be wrong. It will feel so good to be wrong. I will wallow in
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. All I know is that this might, in fact, be the end of my marriage. It might be the end of something I thought had no ending.
• • •
I stare at the door for a while after Ryan leaves. I can’t believe that I have thrown a vase at the wall. I can’t believe that the crushed mess of glass on the floor is because of me. I wasn’t intending to hurt him. I didn’t throw it at him. And yet the violence of it startles me. I didn’t know I was capable of it.
Eventually, I stand up and go to the kitchen and get the broom and the dust pan. I put on a pair of shoes. I start to sweep it all up. As I do, Thumper comes running into the room, and I have to tell him to stop where he is. He listens and sits, watching me. The clink of the pieces against one another as they hit the trash can are almost soothing. Brush. Brush. Clink.
I grab a few paper towels and run them over the area to mop up any remaining shards and water, and then I vacuum. I’m hesitant to stop vacuuming, because I don’t know what I’m going to do after I’m done. I don’t know what to do with myself.
I put everything away and lie down on the bed. I am reminded of when we bought it, why we bought it.
What happened to us?
I can hear a voice in my head, speaking crisply and clearly. I don’t love him anymore. That’s what it says. I don’t love him anymore. And maybe more heartbreaking is the fact that I know, deep down, he doesn’t love me, either.
It all clicks into place. That’s what all of this is, isn’t it? That’s what the fighting is. That’s why I disagree with everything he says. That’s why I can’t stand all the things I used to stand. That’s why we haven’t been having sex. That’s why we never try hard to please each other. That’s why we are never pleased with each other.
Ryan and I are two people who used to be in love.
What a beautiful thing to have been.
What a sad thing to be.
R yan must have returned late at night or early in the morning. I don’t know which. I didn’t wake up when he came home.
When I do wake up, he is on the other side of the bed, Thumper in between us. Ryan’s back is facing me. He is snoring. It scares me that we are able to sleep during this sort of turmoil. I think of the way it used to be, the way fights used to keep us up all night and into the morning. The way we couldn’t sleep on our anger, couldn’t put it on hold. Now we are on the verge of defeat and . . . he’s snoring.
I wait patiently for him to wake up. When he finally does, he doesn’t say anything to me. He stands up and walks to the bathroom. He goes to the kitchen and brews himself a cup of coffee and gets back into bed. He is next to me but not beside me. We are both in this bed, but we are not sharing it.
“We’re not in love anymore,” I say. Just the sound of it coming out of my mouth makes my skin crawl and my adrenaline run. I am shaking.
Ryan stares at me for a moment, no doubt shocked, and then he pulls his hands to his face, burying his fingers in his hair. He is a handsome man. I wonder when I stopped seeing that.
When we got married, he was almost prettier than I was on our wedding day. Our wedding pictures, where he is smiling like a young boy, his eyes crinkled and bright like stars, were beautiful, in part, because he was beautiful. But he no longer seems exceptional to me.
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Ryan says, not looking up, not moving his head from his hands. He is frozen, staring at the blanket beneath him.
“Why?” I ask him, suddenly eager to hear what he thinks, desperate to know if maybe he remembers something I don’t, to know if he thinks I am wrong. Because maybe he can convince me. Maybe I am wrong. I want to be wrong. It will feel so good to be wrong. I will wallow in
Similar Books
