turn our lives into a modern-day version of The Taming Of the Shrew .
“Tonight,” he continues. “We’ll start tonight.”
I don’t know exactly what that means but I know what it might mean. The idea of being with Dave now, having him touch me, having him push his dick inside of me, looking at me smugly as I squirm underneath him . . . I can’t do it.
“You are so angry with me right now,” I say softly. “I don’t want to . . . to be with you until you feel some degree of kindness toward me.”
“You don’t think I do?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. We both know I’m right.
“Then we’ll start slow,” he says. “A dinner at home. Cook me dinner the way you used to do. Dress up for me. Show me that you’re at least willing to make an effort.”
I turn toward the window. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for any of this. But Dave had been making a point when he lied to me about telling my parents. He was letting me know what he could do. If I don’t make an effort, why should he hold his tongue? Why should he do anything for me at all?
“I’ll cook dinner,” I say quietly.
“And you’ll let me select something pretty for you to wear while you serve me?”
While I serve him . I have to tell myself that he’s only talking about dinner . . . but of course the wording was more carefully crafted than that. I’ve given my confession and this is the penance he has chosen for me. Instead of appealing to God, I’m meant to appeal to him.
So I nod. It’s only dinner, only a dress. I’d rather recite the Rosary a few hundred times, but perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s seems silly to try to bring something sacred into hell.
CHAPTER 7
W HEN WE ENTER his house I head straight for the kitchen. Dave probably thinks this is submission but really I just want to get away from him. I’m not a spectacular cook but I’m not horrible. I pull out the ingredients necessary to make a quick-and-easy stir-fry and try to forget the day. The counter is covered with fresh vegetables and two small frozen lamb loin chops when Dave walks in. He stares at the meat, seeing an insult there. He doesn’t much like red meat but had bought the lamb in an attempt to please me. Months ago, a lifetime ago, he had tried to surprise me with a meal . . . which he mangled terribly. We had laughed about it and I had ended up making us pasta.
But he hadn’t thrown away the remaining uncooked loin chops and I do like red meat . . . and I’m the one cooking this time. I pull out a large chopping knife and lay it carefully on a cutting board.
“The dress is on my bed. Go ahead and change.”
“I’ll change after I make dinner,” I say as I reach for some extra-virgin olive oil and a microwave-safe plate for the defrosting.
“No, change now. It will make me happy.”
He’s a million miles from happy. If he was happy, I’d have the man I once cared for, even if I don’t love him.
I suck in a sharp breath. And like that I finally admit the evil truth. I never loved the man I agreed to marry.
I only wanted the life he provided, the orderliness, the structure, the predictability. That had all seemed so important. Funny how those “attributes” have lost so much of their appeal. Perhaps it wasn’t the betrayal that turned him inside out. Maybe it’s the lack of love that’s transformative. Maybe it’s the distance between what we want and what we have that sculpts our behavior.
A dress won’t fix anything, it certainly won’t make either of us happy but since I don’t know what will, I do as asked and go up to his room to change.
The dress makes me laugh. It’s ridiculously provocative and clearly something he picked up today. It’s black and off the shoulder. A strip of solid fabric covers my breasts but below is sheer black mesh, which will reveal my full midriff before meeting another band of solid fabric that forms the micro-mini skirt. I saw a photograph of
“Tonight,” he continues. “We’ll start tonight.”
I don’t know exactly what that means but I know what it might mean. The idea of being with Dave now, having him touch me, having him push his dick inside of me, looking at me smugly as I squirm underneath him . . . I can’t do it.
“You are so angry with me right now,” I say softly. “I don’t want to . . . to be with you until you feel some degree of kindness toward me.”
“You don’t think I do?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. We both know I’m right.
“Then we’ll start slow,” he says. “A dinner at home. Cook me dinner the way you used to do. Dress up for me. Show me that you’re at least willing to make an effort.”
I turn toward the window. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for any of this. But Dave had been making a point when he lied to me about telling my parents. He was letting me know what he could do. If I don’t make an effort, why should he hold his tongue? Why should he do anything for me at all?
“I’ll cook dinner,” I say quietly.
“And you’ll let me select something pretty for you to wear while you serve me?”
While I serve him . I have to tell myself that he’s only talking about dinner . . . but of course the wording was more carefully crafted than that. I’ve given my confession and this is the penance he has chosen for me. Instead of appealing to God, I’m meant to appeal to him.
So I nod. It’s only dinner, only a dress. I’d rather recite the Rosary a few hundred times, but perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s seems silly to try to bring something sacred into hell.
CHAPTER 7
W HEN WE ENTER his house I head straight for the kitchen. Dave probably thinks this is submission but really I just want to get away from him. I’m not a spectacular cook but I’m not horrible. I pull out the ingredients necessary to make a quick-and-easy stir-fry and try to forget the day. The counter is covered with fresh vegetables and two small frozen lamb loin chops when Dave walks in. He stares at the meat, seeing an insult there. He doesn’t much like red meat but had bought the lamb in an attempt to please me. Months ago, a lifetime ago, he had tried to surprise me with a meal . . . which he mangled terribly. We had laughed about it and I had ended up making us pasta.
But he hadn’t thrown away the remaining uncooked loin chops and I do like red meat . . . and I’m the one cooking this time. I pull out a large chopping knife and lay it carefully on a cutting board.
“The dress is on my bed. Go ahead and change.”
“I’ll change after I make dinner,” I say as I reach for some extra-virgin olive oil and a microwave-safe plate for the defrosting.
“No, change now. It will make me happy.”
He’s a million miles from happy. If he was happy, I’d have the man I once cared for, even if I don’t love him.
I suck in a sharp breath. And like that I finally admit the evil truth. I never loved the man I agreed to marry.
I only wanted the life he provided, the orderliness, the structure, the predictability. That had all seemed so important. Funny how those “attributes” have lost so much of their appeal. Perhaps it wasn’t the betrayal that turned him inside out. Maybe it’s the lack of love that’s transformative. Maybe it’s the distance between what we want and what we have that sculpts our behavior.
A dress won’t fix anything, it certainly won’t make either of us happy but since I don’t know what will, I do as asked and go up to his room to change.
The dress makes me laugh. It’s ridiculously provocative and clearly something he picked up today. It’s black and off the shoulder. A strip of solid fabric covers my breasts but below is sheer black mesh, which will reveal my full midriff before meeting another band of solid fabric that forms the micro-mini skirt. I saw a photograph of
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