“Why do you love that word so much?” she says to me.
I ask her exactly which one she means
“You know exactly which one. The one you can’t stop using.” She looks at me steadily. “Every other word you say, practically.”
Just now, the way she gazes at me, that strange hardness in her eyes that looks like indifference but is really a lie, I want to do it to her. That word she won’t allow herself to say. That word she hates me saying.
She is old, lately, and critical. When we first met she was majestic. They say that women bloom when they come into their thirties. She must be some exotic flower, then, because that bloom is fading.
She is still looking at me. Her face has lost its softness. It no longer invites the caress I used to want to bestow. She is harder now, in spite of the creams and lotions she pours onto her aging body.
I say the word. All credit to her, she does not blink. I say it again, there is no flicker in her gaze.
“I hate it,” she says softly.
I smile and get up from the table. I pick up my bowl, my spoon, my cup and take them to the dishwasher. I ignore hers. It’s all part of the petty war. I leave mine on the worktop by the sink. Later, it will make her sigh to see them there.
She looks tired. I don’t know why I love that word so much. For the same reasons I love to wear her down, I suppose. It suits me. I lean against the sink unit and watch her. Her shoulders have begun to sag. She was proud and straight when we met. Now she just looks weary.
I say the word again and laugh.
She stands up and collects he own lunch things, bringing them over to where I stand. She opens the dishwasher and places her things in, then mine. She does not sigh, not audibly, but her whole movement is a reproach. It gratifies me to see it.
I reach out a hand to touch the hardness of her face. She freezes, not expecting tenderness and I am tempted to change the intended caress to a blow. But I don’t. Instead the back of my hand comes to rest gently against the coolness of her cheek.
She remains motionless. I remove my hand. She continues to load the dishwasher. The pan that heated the soup, the spoon that stirred it, the cups, plates, dishes from breakfast. I watch her, knowing she is waiting for something to happen, for the casual blow to land.
Why do I love that word so much?
Then the telephone rings and the moment is lost. I move into the hall to answer it. I am speaking to my mate. He is in the pub. Am I coming, he asks. Maybe later, I tell him. There’s something I need to do first. The match is on the big screen, he tells me. Kick off at three. Two hours away. All the time I am listening to him, I am also listening to her, moving around the kitchen.
I place the handset back on its base. She is humming under her breath. I stand in the doorway. I tell her to shut up.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say.
Shut the fuck up. The word. The signal. I smile. She looks at me. She knows. But I calm the moment. I tell her that the match is on the big screen and my mate is waiting down the pub.
“What time?” she asks.
I tell her and watch her work it out for herself. Her body sags in resignation. She looks tired. She nods.
Later, she is limp and refuses to look at me. I am spent, the tension gone, released. I have left her raw. She lies with her face turned away from me, her arms still raised where I pinned them, her legs still apart. I stand by the bed and I want to do it again. The sight of her weary body invites it.
It takes longer this time, and her eyes are closed throughout. She looks as though she is trying not to be here, so I push harder. She flinches then. She flinches because, physically, I have hurt her. Emotionally she is already dead. That is my triumph.
She is crying this time, as I dress. I smile and tell her I’ll see her later, after the match, after a few pints. She is crying and I know that I have won this time.
As I leave the room, I hear her whisper it.
“Fuck you.”
That word that she hates. I’ll talk to her about that later.
