I removed my ring today. It’s a beautiful filigree antique styled silver band with a large pear shaped stone. I laid it on the satin sheets. How beautiful it looked there. Like it belonged there, more than it ever did on my own finger.
Today is the day I leave him. I told myself that every morning. For a while, I told myself, that I was just warming the bed for his next love as he was doing for mine. One day he asked for my hand, I said yes, we got married, and now I'm here. I thought being committed would make me fall in love, that we'd say our vows and I'd be smitten. But I'm sleeping with a stranger, a stranger I say I love, and wake up to every morning. All I see are those blue eyes, sad in their own right, they sit above lips that smile, it doesn’t fit. He is my husband. Yet, he is a stranger, my stranger.
So another day passes, I slide my ring back on my finger and a happy face to accompany. He wakes up, grunts, rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom. His daily routine, uninterrupted.
“Sally, what’s for breakfast,” Dan shouts out the bathroom door.
I roll my eyes, and reach for my robe hung on my drawers next to the bed. Time for breakfast. I slowly walked to the kitchen, miserable. I heat up the pan and crack some eggs, I hear the razor buzzing in the bathroom.
“Eggs again?” Dan grumbles.
I curse under my breath. Pointless. Dan, a grade A closeted dirt bag, despite his office workers thinking he is a clean-cut motivated man, a go-getter, they still don’t have to pick up after him and his mess.
He walks out in his plush robe I bought for him last Christmas, it fit him well, he had a body of a Greek statue. I still had no desire for that smug face or any of his parts. I brush my hair back with my fingers and put on my little song and dance to appease him.
“Honey all ready for work?” I asked rhetorically, I hardly care anymore.
He opened the paper, didn’t look up or acknowledge me. “Yeah, yeah. Great Sally you should do that,” he continued to read, without even answering my original question.
I ran the water over the dishes, filling the sink with greasy soap bubbles. The sink had recess lighting and a mosaic backsplash with a disco-era flair. The kitchen was my newly appointed favorite space in the house, I remodeled it myself. One of my many projects that I started to pass the time in this doomed marriage. I hate that his presence ruins the energy in the room, in any room really.
I am fed up. Yet, I smile sheepishly at the man, still catering to his will. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I clear my head, practicing some yoga techniques I found off the internet. I like to think it works, so I start the day this way removing him from my thoughts. The bottle of Moscato works better, so after some breathing techniques, I pour myself a glass and head to the shower.
Wringing my hair out, I throw on my little wrap dress. I check the clock.
“SHIT,” I yell at the mirror, I’m always late, but somehow it still comes as a surprise to me. Grabbing my heels off the kitchen table I run out the door in my stocking-ed feet. I slammed the door behind me in a rush, Dan had said something, but I’m late, not like it was anything important anyways. Probably one of those back-handed comments about my tardiness to work and how I need to be more responsible. Coming from the guy who doesn’t have to be at work until ten a.m., it must be nice to be head of your department and have your own corner office.
I nearly threw myself through the driver’s side door of my Audi. Yes, I drive an Audi and I named her Megan, it’s my pride and joy, been through every break-up with me and even enjoyed some heated break-up sex too, all before I got married to Dan of course. I always have conversations with Megan. It’s my way to be introspective, to think out loud, and she never talks back. It’s comforting to have something on your side for once.
Every morning, and sometimes even afternoons I pose this question, “Where did it all go wrong, Meg?” Sometimes, I half expect an answer, but like always it never comes, not even from within myself.