A happy marriage

Abruptly, she switched off the TV. It was playing ads anyway.

“So, listen, do you know how they reacted when I told them about the new – “

“Why did you switch off the TV?” This was the warning she missed. Not a naturally perceptive person, she was too excited to pay attention to his receptivity anyway. She had information she needed to share. A day had happened. She needed to tell someone about it. She missed that the tone was curt. Almost angry. She missed the raised brow. She missed the slight frown. She missed the mouth that remained open after the sentence was uttered and done with.

“Because I don’t want you distracted when I am telling you this…”, she continued like it was the most natural thing to do, “ So I told them about the new working hours. They were pissed of course. But – “

“You already told me that.” He countered immediately, bored already.

A breath of air left her in a whoosh.

No.

No. No. No.

She stared at him. Tears gathering in her eyes. Breathing heavily. After she told off her stupid staff all day long, acting like their damn PA, she did not deserve this. After she cooked for this man, everyday, everyday without complaining, every goddamn motherfucking day, with zero motherfucking complaints, she did not deserve this.

She tore her gaze away.

Collecting and picking up the used dishes they had eaten their dinner in, she quietly walked out.

He sat up with a start, when he heard the clanging of metal on metal as plates and bowls went clattering into the steel sink, the noise loudly and unpleasantly breaking the silence of the once peaceful 17th floor apartment.

He rearranged his face from the cringe that had worsened as the bowls bounced and clattered. He waited for her to come back screaming at his face.

Seconds went by. He looked at the red digital clock she had insisted she needed in the bedroom. She did not want to fumble around looking for the phone to check the time. She needed a bloody digital clock to shout at her eyes in red. And so the room must be bathed in a murder mystery red all night, every night.

More seconds passed. 20 degree Celsius. It cant be that cold, he thought, pulling the comforter over his legs. Why was it not on his legs before. Was she hogging it as they watched tv and ate their dinner together?

Or can her damn clock only function as a bloody night lamp. Cant even get the damn temperature right.

He noticed the weave of the bed cover. Not that there was anything remarkable about it. There wasn’t. But he noticed it for over a minute.

She did tell me over tea, he thought, as he leaned back and switched on the TV.