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29th Nov, 2020
So, here I am again. Sitting in this chair, the same seat at the kitchen table I always occupy. I hate this chair and I hate this table and more than anything I hate the man standing across from this chair. The man I once upon a time adored. The man that was my all. The man with whom I have made this house a home. The man who was my man long ago.
We’ve been drifting apart for so long now… I honestly cannot remember the last time I looked at him and felt something other than detachment, or, more recently, disgust. I thank dear God every day for giving me common sense not to procreate with this leech. The would-be children would’ve been destroyed by the toxicity brewing to overspill between us… I wouldn’t wish that on anybody…
Anyhow, he just stands there, looking at me but in actuality looking through me, thinking of who knows what and who knows who… if at all. An image of a dark blank space and an occasional tumbleweed passing across the accumulated dust springs into my mind and I come close to smirking, but it’s easily overpowered by other images… more recent memories.
He screwed up and I retaliated, so here we are, engaged in a perpetual staring contest with no winners and no players. We don’t talk anymore. We go through motions. I feed us, he takes out the trash, I do the laundry, he vacuums on occasion, rarely. We eat at different times of day, whether intentionally or not, I have no clue. I’m not so unhappy nowadays because I don’t think I care that much anymore, even though I am still very angry. But I stay. And for what reason? Beats me. Or maybe I do know why. The house is in our names. This house that holds memories. Memories from our wedding night, from the first night we spent in that bedroom down the hall to the right… Memories from a faraway time when we were younger, bight-eyed and in love. In love with each other and in love with love. When he would bring me breakfast in bed and I would do a little striptease show for him at night. When he would make love to me all night long and then we would cuddle for hours afterwards. Thinking about this unlocks a door to something almost forgotten. And the door cracks open just a smidgeon. There is warmth followed by hope and I open my mouth to say something nice or maybe encouraging, but in a split second those feelings get overrun by the last eleven months of us eating alone, all those years of him whoring around, and my singular affair that I’ve had in response to the multitude of his betrayals; so what comes out of my mouth is a relieved closure epitomized in a single sentence:
“I want a divorce.”
His absentminded gaze focuses on me and I see something shifting behind that previously vacant stare. To my astonishment I recognize surprise, hurt and even jealousy in the trembling of his fingers and the furrowing or his brow.
“Why?” he asks on a whisper. “So that you can go and fuck Brian?” he pushes through clenched teeth with more force.
I can’t believe the audacity of him! How dare he be jealous!? He who’s been fucking every groupie he could sink his dick into after every single one of his gigs. It’s kind of my fault, really, I should’ve had the brain capacity of reasoning why it would be a bad idea to marry a musician, let alone a lead singer of a rock band. Every skank throwing herself at him just because he is “the man”, and that stupid grin on his face plainly showing that that’s boosting his ego. My inner turmoil is repressed by my desire to remain calm and composed, so I open my mouth again just to repeat:
“I want a divorce.”
It does something to him and he starts pacing up and down the length of the kitchen in a jittery manner.
“No… No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! NO!” he yells on a crescendo slamming his fist on the solid oak dining table in front of me. Shock fills me on the inside, but I forbid myself to show it. I’ve decided and there is nothing he can do to stop me. So, once again, I say those four little words in the exact same way I’ve done it the previous two times. Calmly, without rushing, exuding composure.
“I want a divorce.”
His ears are red, his fists clenched on either side of his body and out of the blue he lunges at me, grabs me by my shoulders, pushes me out of my seat toppling the chair in the process, pins me to the kitchen wall that’s behind me and shouts:
“Is that all you can do?! All you will say!?! Like a parrot!?! ... Talk to me!” Terror grips my muscles, but I will them to relax and again seemingly effortlessly utter:
“I want a divorce.”
His chest is expanding and constricting rapidly pushed by the ragged intake of air, his eyes willing me to say something else but I stand my ground and stare right back in a dispassionate manner. There’s another shift behind his furious gaze and he crushes my lips with an unwanted kiss. He moans spreading his disgusting saliva all over my unyielding mouth, fisting my hair with his right hand, grabbing the crevice between my behind and my upper thigh with his left, pushing his crotch into my lower stomach and pubic area, and I do nothing because his tantrum is childish and completely uncalled for. The man I once loved isn’t this man. Or maybe I’m not the same woman anymore. His advances subside and I see hope in his eyes when he finally opens them to gauge my reaction. This hope I don’t really take any perverse pleasure in crushing, but I’m aware that I have to because I feel no lust or love or even compassion for this man. A man I’ve been clothing, feeding and supporting for the last seven years. I’m void of any and all positive feelings for him, I have just plain old disgust and detachment towards him. So once again I repeat:
“I want a divorce.”
His hope disintegrates like a sheet of the cheapest toilet paper that’s been sitting in water for days, and he crumbles to his knees in front of me, desperately clutching the fabric of my skirt, hugging my hips, crying, his head bowed, and I feel something new – irritation. Irritation at his tears marking my tan skirt. This pathetic excuse for a human being hasn’t contributed to our household…well…come to think of it…ever. All he came back with was chlamydia. Bastard.
I step aside away from him, turn the chair that tumbled over back to the upright position, put it to its rightful place, sit back down and slowly focus my impassive stare towards him.
“We are getting a divorce, Samuel. I give you a day to pack your things and get out. We’re done. We’ve been done for quite some time now.”
He’s still on his knees and with me sitting down we’re at eye level and I can see his crocodile tears mixing with his snot and saliva, the droplets flying everywhere as he violently squalls, spewing garbage with each and every one of the words he utters. This just makes me realize how much I do not care for this person anymore. I watch him cry even harder and squeal loudly through his scrunched up face:
“You can’t do this to me! This is our house!!! You can pack and go live with Brian! You bitch!!!”
Although his unrighteous outburst angers me, which I show with just a slight frown and the addition of coolness in my eyes, I keep my composure. I know this side of me unsettles him and so I utilize it well.
“Samuel,” I start as if talking to a petulant child, “your music hasn’t paid for anything ever since we moved in here, even before the wedding, let alone after. I’ve paid for this house with my own money, therefore I will continue living here. With or without Brian is none of your business. I’ll repeat, pack your things and get out. I’m not giving you even a full day anymore just for calling me a bitch. You have two hours, should be plenty for your bag. Stay at one of your bandmates’ or groupies’. You’re not my problem anymore. Your tears are not for me but for the hot meals, the clean clothes and sheets, the warm bed and the roof over your head that I’ve been providing for free. I don’t love you and, don’t kid yourself, you’ve stopped loving me eons ago. So stop this sniveling charade and just go.”
My little monologue sobers him up, the waterworks stop to my utter relief. Incredulity sets in and he can’t help but weakly ask:
“Why?” And my answer will not satisfy him, ergo I take great pleasure in answering:
“Because I want a divorce.”