Untitled Short Story
When she sulked, she sulked with her whole body. You could see it, not only in her face, but in her entire being. The corners of her mouth would sag and so too would the dimples in her fleshy thighs. It was as if she left her body completely to be replaced with a demure, weasly replica.
Her husband liked to disappear when she came into one of these fits, which was seemingly happening more and more frequently. Her mood would engulf her, then their room, and would finally suck the life out of him too, so that his normally placid persona turned to pure resentment. Before this time of down trodden moods there had been so much to her, to him, to them as a couple. They had been individualists, tackling the world’s problems, propagates of world peace: living and communicating in extremes.
But then the passion dissolved as their entrapment together turned them into enemies. Since they could no longer be passionate together they chose to direct their energies towards a contained rivalry:
“Let’s play Scrabble,” she’d/he’d say.
“The Q is missing,” he’d/she’d reply.
“Where is the Q?”
“How should I know?”
“You hid it, didn’t you.”
“Why would I hide the Q?”
“Because you don’t want to play with me. You’re always avoiding me.”
“How can I avoid you, we’re stuck in the same room together.”
“Well, whose fault is that…”
It was then that the tumultuous, circular argument would begin, like clockwork, everyday- sometimes multiple times a day, about whose fault it was that they were stuck in this small room together. There was never a clear answer because, for both of them, it was always a bit foggy how things had progressed to this level of extremism: the two of them in one small room containing their shared woes- a bed with a tacky purple comforter, a couch whose arms were ridiculously jagged, a desk too wobbly to actually use to write on, a bookshelf with a shelf missing, a dresser whose top left drawer always stuck, and a few other odd storage units that clashed with one another. Before, they had shared an apartment that was not lavish, but was upscale, and had been at the center of things, so that something, anything, was always happening, someone was always awake displaying a quirky habit or hobby.
So now, being always alone together, their attention always focused on the other one, discrepancies in their lives began to surface that had been invisible in the previous fifteen years of their marriage:
“Why do you hold your pen like that?”
“Like what?”
“You don’t hold your pen right.”
“Why does it matter how I hold my pen?”
“Because…it’s just- not right, it looks funny.”
Or
“What should we eat for dinner?”
“Pasta.”
“I’m sick of pasta. We always have pasta.”
“Then make something else.”
“I’m sick of being creative. I always have to come up with something. You come up with something.”
“Pasta.”
Exasperation. The things that had once seemed so solid in their marriage: passion, dedication, love for literature and debating politics, a secret soft spot for orange tabby cats; disappeared as the continuous alone time they spent with each other compounded. She would try to hide in the corner, desperately craving to be lost in a book, but he was in the background, shuffling pieces as he played chess against an invisible opponent or she would hum 80’s pop as he tried to meditate atop a red cushion. Inevitably, these intrusions into each other’s personal space, personal needs, led to the fits: fits of bickering, fits of anger, fits of “the silent treatment,” fits of sulking.
In these fits both would contemplate in their minds: How was it that they had ended up in this small room together, where each day the wall shrank forcing them closer physically, all the while increasing the void between them? How had the person they loved more than anyone slowly become the one they wanted to run away from, poison, and generally dismember into 1,022 pieces?
At its conception the idea had seemed brilliant. They were at a place in their lives they could take a risk: financially they were stable- very stable in fact, their daughter (from her previous marriage) was going into her second year of college, their tabby cat had recently passed away. They were ready to try something new- to start an adventure.
They discussed their options: a safari- too Republican, backpacking through Europe- too young, moving to Florida- too old, running for office- too extreme, opening a business- too mundane, taking a road rip- too cliché. The ideas and pondering continued as the days, weeks, months stretched. Soon the spontaneity seemed to dissipate and their so-called adventure seemed to become lackluster.
They were still at this road block one night as they sat in front of their TV eating take-out sushi: spicy tuna roll and miso soup for her, California roll, salmon roll, and edamame for him, half chatting and half watching the evening movie: Shallow Hal. She found the movie vaguely amusing; he thought it was inane and paged through The Economist. It was nearing the end of the film- Gwyneth Paltrow was leaving, Jack Black wanted her back- together they were going into: the Peace Corps. At that mention- Peace Corps! - she excitedly punched her husband while rice fell from her chopsticks and bounced onto the cushioned arms of their sofa.
Now, here they were, a million miles away from running water, TV, decent newspapers, sushi: sitting in the room they had been sharing for the last six months while attempting to vary their days with community projects, but inevitably spending more time with each other, alone, than they ever had before: always together- at work, doing chores, going grocery shopping, meeting with villagers, always, in the end, in this room. Their sense of helping people increasingly eroded by their resentment towards each other:
“Let’s go running.”
“It’s raining.”
“So what?”
“We’ll end up knee deep in mud.”
“So what?”
“I don’t want to have to wash out all that mud.”
Or
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Sushi.”
“Ha ha…no really?”
“Some of the villagers gave me termites today. We could fry those up.”
Both of their mouths turned upward, slightly cringing, sharing the same thoughts of vexation at the villagers.
“Ha ha…no really?”
“Pasta.”
“I suppose…”
Her husband liked to disappear when she came into one of these fits, which was seemingly happening more and more frequently. Her mood would engulf her, then their room, and would finally suck the life out of him too, so that his normally placid persona turned to pure resentment. Before this time of down trodden moods there had been so much to her, to him, to them as a couple. They had been individualists, tackling the world’s problems, propagates of world peace: living and communicating in extremes.
But then the passion dissolved as their entrapment together turned them into enemies. Since they could no longer be passionate together they chose to direct their energies towards a contained rivalry:
“Let’s play Scrabble,” she’d/he’d say.
“The Q is missing,” he’d/she’d reply.
“Where is the Q?”
“How should I know?”
“You hid it, didn’t you.”
“Why would I hide the Q?”
“Because you don’t want to play with me. You’re always avoiding me.”
“How can I avoid you, we’re stuck in the same room together.”
“Well, whose fault is that…”
It was then that the tumultuous, circular argument would begin, like clockwork, everyday- sometimes multiple times a day, about whose fault it was that they were stuck in this small room together. There was never a clear answer because, for both of them, it was always a bit foggy how things had progressed to this level of extremism: the two of them in one small room containing their shared woes- a bed with a tacky purple comforter, a couch whose arms were ridiculously jagged, a desk too wobbly to actually use to write on, a bookshelf with a shelf missing, a dresser whose top left drawer always stuck, and a few other odd storage units that clashed with one another. Before, they had shared an apartment that was not lavish, but was upscale, and had been at the center of things, so that something, anything, was always happening, someone was always awake displaying a quirky habit or hobby.
So now, being always alone together, their attention always focused on the other one, discrepancies in their lives began to surface that had been invisible in the previous fifteen years of their marriage:
“Why do you hold your pen like that?”
“Like what?”
“You don’t hold your pen right.”
“Why does it matter how I hold my pen?”
“Because…it’s just- not right, it looks funny.”
Or
“What should we eat for dinner?”
“Pasta.”
“I’m sick of pasta. We always have pasta.”
“Then make something else.”
“I’m sick of being creative. I always have to come up with something. You come up with something.”
“Pasta.”
Exasperation. The things that had once seemed so solid in their marriage: passion, dedication, love for literature and debating politics, a secret soft spot for orange tabby cats; disappeared as the continuous alone time they spent with each other compounded. She would try to hide in the corner, desperately craving to be lost in a book, but he was in the background, shuffling pieces as he played chess against an invisible opponent or she would hum 80’s pop as he tried to meditate atop a red cushion. Inevitably, these intrusions into each other’s personal space, personal needs, led to the fits: fits of bickering, fits of anger, fits of “the silent treatment,” fits of sulking.
In these fits both would contemplate in their minds: How was it that they had ended up in this small room together, where each day the wall shrank forcing them closer physically, all the while increasing the void between them? How had the person they loved more than anyone slowly become the one they wanted to run away from, poison, and generally dismember into 1,022 pieces?
At its conception the idea had seemed brilliant. They were at a place in their lives they could take a risk: financially they were stable- very stable in fact, their daughter (from her previous marriage) was going into her second year of college, their tabby cat had recently passed away. They were ready to try something new- to start an adventure.
They discussed their options: a safari- too Republican, backpacking through Europe- too young, moving to Florida- too old, running for office- too extreme, opening a business- too mundane, taking a road rip- too cliché. The ideas and pondering continued as the days, weeks, months stretched. Soon the spontaneity seemed to dissipate and their so-called adventure seemed to become lackluster.
They were still at this road block one night as they sat in front of their TV eating take-out sushi: spicy tuna roll and miso soup for her, California roll, salmon roll, and edamame for him, half chatting and half watching the evening movie: Shallow Hal. She found the movie vaguely amusing; he thought it was inane and paged through The Economist. It was nearing the end of the film- Gwyneth Paltrow was leaving, Jack Black wanted her back- together they were going into: the Peace Corps. At that mention- Peace Corps! - she excitedly punched her husband while rice fell from her chopsticks and bounced onto the cushioned arms of their sofa.
Now, here they were, a million miles away from running water, TV, decent newspapers, sushi: sitting in the room they had been sharing for the last six months while attempting to vary their days with community projects, but inevitably spending more time with each other, alone, than they ever had before: always together- at work, doing chores, going grocery shopping, meeting with villagers, always, in the end, in this room. Their sense of helping people increasingly eroded by their resentment towards each other:
“Let’s go running.”
“It’s raining.”
“So what?”
“We’ll end up knee deep in mud.”
“So what?”
“I don’t want to have to wash out all that mud.”
Or
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Sushi.”
“Ha ha…no really?”
“Some of the villagers gave me termites today. We could fry those up.”
Both of their mouths turned upward, slightly cringing, sharing the same thoughts of vexation at the villagers.
“Ha ha…no really?”
“Pasta.”
“I suppose…”
posted by Cait at 1:24 PM
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