Love Grown Cold

One more beer should dull the senses enough. One more beer should be all she needs. Staring at the empty bottles covering the counter she shakes her head and pops the cap off. Those bottles mock her, the laugh at her and her weak attempts at feigning happiness. She should be happy, her life has been blessed, the kind of life that you see in movies and read about in books. She is the one they envy, the one who everyone wants to hate, but simply can't.

Tipping back the bottle she takes a long drink, swallowing the amber liquid almost as fast as it pours into her mouth. Half the bottle is gone before she stops and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. If her friends could see her now! Oh they wouldn't really see her though, they would deny the reality that stands before them.

She staggers into the living room, grateful that no one is there to see her bump into things as she makes her way to the couch. Without her usual grace she flops onto the couch and throws her feet onto the coffee table. Grabbing the remote she turns on the television and stares at the screen, not caring what's on, just needing the noise. After a few minutes she begins to laugh, a deep, hoarse chuckle unlike her usual bell-like laughter. This is a laugh that men would run from, not flock to. She tips back her beer again, taking another long swallow and belching loudly as soon as she pulls it from her lips.

He's working late tonight, a glance at the clock tells her that he won't be home for at least two more hours. Plenty of time to take the bottles to the neighbor's recycling bin, shower and crawl into bed. He expects her to be sleeping when he comes home, she won't have any problems living up to that expectation. She used to wait up for him, long to see him and fight the sleepiness that overwhelmed her just so she could wrap her arms around him as he lifted her from the couch and carried her to bed. But not anymore. Now she wants to ignore him, be asleep when he comes home and gone when he wakes up. Gone when he leaves for work. She wants to be the faceless wife who leaves his dinner in the fridge and a note on the counter covered in x's and o's. On the weekend she'll tell him how much she missed him, she'll make love to him and pretend to enjoy it. But most of the time she just wants to forget that he exists.

From her place on the couch she can see the wedding picture. It hangs above the mantle, a place of honor. They stare at her, accusation in their joyful eyes. She is singlehandedly destroying this marriage, and he has no idea.

But neither does she. She does not know where this dissatisfaction has come from. She does not know when she became unhappy. His voice grates on her every nerve, the sight of him sickens her and making love to him is not the joy that it once was. She can't even remember the last time she enjoyed sex with him. His hands on her body make her skin crawl and his kisses no longer ignite passion. She closes her eyes and prays for it to end, imagining him to be someone else.

Everything in her life is a farce. The happy and doting wife that she appears to be is just a weak portrayal of who she once was. A third pull on the bottle finishes the beer and she just lets go, letting the bottle fall to the floor and roll underneath the table. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, and in her state she cannot control them, nor does she want to.

After a time she stops, sniffling quietly and wiping her face with her shirt. Grunting she rises from the couch and retrieves the bottle from its place upon the floor. In the kitchen she puts all the empty bottles into a grocery sack and carries them outside. It's hard to be sneaky when you can't walk a straight line, but somehow she manages to get into her neighbor's backyard without anyone noticing. Carefully she puts the sack of bottles into their recycle bin, not caring if they notice, not caring if they wonder where the bottles come from. She cringes at the sound the bottles make as they settle into place after she lets go of the handles. It's so loud!

Once back in her own home she locks the door and begins to turn out the lights. She bangs her shin and trips over the shoes she carelessly left in the middle of the room, but somehow manages to turn off all the lights except for the small reading light in the living room. Always she has left that one light on for him, and if she didn't then he would know that something was amiss. Stumbling into the bathroom she closes the door behind her and leans against it, breathing heavily and struggling to keep from vomiting. Once the urge passes, and her salivary glands calm themselves she begins her nightly ritual. In earlier days accomplishing this task while drunk was next to impossible and she would simply throw herself into bed not caring about the filth on her body and crud on her teeth. But now, now that every night is spent this way she has learned to put on the show. If he comes home and her hair is not damp upon the pillow, her breath is not minty fresh and the smell of coconut does not permeate the room he would start to wonder. If he started to wonder he would figure it out.

She wants him to figure it out, but she's afraid, so very afraid.

She flosses, takes a swig of mouthwash and gargles enthusiastically, laughing at the tickle in her throat and almost choking. She spits and then brushes her teeth for the full two minutes, being careful to brush the backs of her teeth as well. Warming the water for her shower she strips and brushes her hair.

Standing in the warm water she begins to cry again. Always she cries in the shower, it's a safe place to cry. Again she wonders where it all went wrong, where and why. Why is the man who made her so happy, who filled her with so much joy and passion now the one man she cannot stand to look at? If she knew the answer she wouldn't be such a drunken mess.

Shampoo, conditioner and the softly scented soap he loves her to use. The scent of it makes her gag and once again she struggles to maintain the contents of her stomach. She cannot rinse the suds off her body fast enough.

The cocoa butter is smooth against her skin and she lingers, taking her time with this part of the ritual, the one part she still enjoys. She hangs her towel and opens the door, a cloud of steam rushing out into the colder air of the rest of the house. Turning off the light she tip-toes to her bedroom, then crawls between the sheets, allowing the cotton to caress her bare flesh. She falls asleep, lost in fantasies about other men, men she believes she could actually love.

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He turns the key in the lock slowly, knowing how loud the click of the dead bolt is and how light a sleeper she is. With equal caution he closes the door and locks it from the inside. He smiles when he sees that she has left the reading lamp on, since the first night he worked this awful shift she has always left that light on for him, even going so far as to steal bulbs from other lamps when there were no new ones to be had.

In the kitchen he reads the note she left and smiles at the x's and o's she carefully placed beneath the scrawled "Love you". Even after ten years those words take his breath away. He pulls dinner from the fridge and fixes himself a plate, placing it into the microwave to heat while he takes off his shoes. The microwave beeps and he removes his dinner, pausing for a moment to breathe deeply the smells of a meal cooked with love. Smiling he brings his plate to the dining room table and the stack of mail she has so thoughtfully placed there for him. While he eats he reads through his mail, tearing the junk mail into pieces and setting the bills aside to be dealt with after he has eaten. When the meal is done he carefully rinses his dishes and puts them into the dishwasher, then wipes down the counter with the dish rag so she won't be faced with any microscopic crumbs come morning.

He takes a few minutes to pay the bills and puts the envelopes into the napkin holder she had set aside for outgoing mail. Her need for organization has rubbed off on him, and over the years he's come to appreciate and even crave the "place for everything and everything in its place." Turning off the lights he makes his way to the bathroom.

After his shower he stands in the doorway to their bedroom, listening to her breathe. She snores softly and he smiles, it's almost cute when she snores. Slowly he pulls back the covers on his side of the bed, then slips beneath them and reaches for her. Wrapping his arms around her he pulls her close, breathing in the scent of her lotion he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When the alarm goes off she struggles to pull her arm up to turn it off. Freeing it from the covers takes longer than she would like and by the time she hits the snooze button she's too awake to fall back to sleep. For a moment she lies there, no trace of last night's drinking binge remains in her mind or body, she's been doing it for too long and has become accustomed to it. Sighing she imagines her liver resembles an over-inflated football. Perhaps she should stop drinking, but she knows that if she does that then she'll either kill herself or end up doing some other drug to deal with the pain of her existence.

She throws back the covers with no regard for the man who shares her bed, not caring if she leaves him exposed to the cold morning air. Standing she stretches and her joints pop as she moves. Making her way to the bathroom she pees, brushes her teeth and pulls the knots out of her hair before returning to the room they share to scrounge up some clothes for the day.

Dressing quickly she doesn't spare a glance for him, doesn't notice that he hasn't pulled the blanket back over his exposed leg.

The morning passes in its usual blur of chores, checking her Email, sweeping the kitchen, preparing his lunch and perusing the paper. Shortly after noon, as she pours soap into the dishwasher she hears his alarm clock. The infernal racket always raises her hackles, one thing that hasn't changed in their years together. She counts the beeps out of habit, knowing that he will sleep through the alarm if the previous day was particularly exhausting. She closes and starts the dishwasher at the twentieth beep, by the twenty-fifth she is standing in front of their bedroom door. At the thirtieth beep she opens the door and, for the first time in almost two weeks actually looks at her husband.

Sprawled upon the bed, his head thrown back, arms and legs spread wide, a small smile upon his lips he is oblivious to the machine noisily protesting his slumber. The sound of the alarm clock is dimmed as she stares at him.

He needs to shave, the cleft of his chin is hidden by the stubble that has grown there over the last twenty-four hours. His broad chest and the very leg she had uncovered in her desire to get out of the bed that morning are exposed. His physical beauty is just as intoxicating as it was the day she met him, tanned and toned, soft green eyes and a ready smile. His black hair, so thick and soft-not coarse like most men's hair. She used to love to run her fingers through it while me made love to her, gripping it close to the scalp when she climaxed and pulling so fiercely he would scream in pain at the same moment that he himself would come. He always claimed that it heightened his orgasm, she tried to do it still, to keep up the charade.

The alarm keeps beeping.
She keeps staring.
He doesn't move.

Entering the room she smiles as she moves around to his side of the bed. With a casual flip of her finger she turns off his alarm, then reaches over and caresses his cheek. So cold.

She leaves the bedroom, not bothering to close the door. She gets her purse from the small table in the entry way and grabs her keys from the hook on the wall. Stepping outside she breathes deeply, it's the first day of spring and never has she felt more alive. As she locks the door she begins to hum.