What is Left of You

CW: Miscarriage, alcohol, domestic violence.

 Her husband came home one night, later than usual.
 It was clear to her, when he walked into their bedroom, that he’d been at the place women pretended their husbands never went to. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, the work pants she’d ironed that morning now crumpled at the waistband. A smudge of something red on his collar caught her eye—a drip of sauce or another woman’s signature color, she didn’t know for sure.
 Without a word, the man dropped his briefcase by their cheap wooden dresser. He grabbed his sleep attire, which had been folded neatly by his devoted wife, from the foot of the mattress and advanced toward the bathroom. He did not bother to comment on the scent of laundry detergent lingering on the cotton.
 “How was your evening?” the woman asked before he could close the bathroom door. She knew how it was. She always did.
 “Fine. Lots of cases. Clients.”
 She cocked her head. “Anything interesting?”
 He shook his head and slid the translucent glass door shut.
 She turned to watch him through the door, feeling the sourness in the air as she did. She watched him splash his face with tap water and pat it dry, aggressively, as if he were attempting to shine an old shoe. She watched him brush his teeth and then try in vain to take his medications. He’d always been terrible at swallowing pills.
 She watched him change. He was quick about it, but it wasn’t as if he was shy. He had been showing himself off to beautiful women all evening; there was no need to show off to his homely wife. And yet, his wife admired the slivers of him that she could see. She held her breath for the few seconds that he was wearing neither his work nor his sleep shirt, and exhaled when he was again clothed.
 Her husband emerged from the bathroom, face slightly red. His sleep clothes hung loosely around his slender yet athletic frame. He made haste toward the light switch, but his wife halted him before he could flick it off.
 “Can you hold me tonight?”
 “It’s been a long day,” he replied.
 “Every day is a long day,” she countered, a conglomerate of exasperation and hope. “Long days are when I miss you and need you the most.”
 He paused. Then, he retorted, “Maybe another night,” and turned the room black.
 The woman listened to the creaking sound of the bedframe as her husband crawled under the duvet. She listened to the quiet thump of his pillow on the mattress and of his head on the pillow. She listened to his steady heartbeat, imperturbably rhythmic, almost like a musical composition.

 “Please hold me,” she whispered.

 This time, her husband relented. He stretched out his arm for her, and she nestled herself in his embrace. The bitter smell of alcohol on his breath made her nose tickle, but she distracted herself by listening to his breaths. She tried in vain to match the song he sang with his breathing, to mimic the crescendo of his inhale and the lyricism of his exhale. It was a beautiful song.

 Just as they began to harmonize, however, her husband shifted abruptly. He retreated to the cool detachment of the bed’s far edge, withdrawing from the warmth of his wife. His rejection ran cold through her, seeping into her bones.

 “Can you hold me again?” she asked.

 He groaned. “Let’s not do this now, please. I’ve held you like you asked me to.” With that, he rolled back over, this time with his back to his wife.

 Angered to see him so dismissive, she decided to make him look at her. She put two hands on the side of his torso and flopped him back over, his back colliding with the mattress. His chest now faced the waterlogged ceiling and the tidepools forming by her lower lashline. He had promised to fix both leaks months ago.

 “Tell me you love me,” she begged, looking down at him. Her manicured fingernails dug into his skin, not enough to break it but to bruise. “And mean it. And act like it.”

 The man shook her off of him. “You exhaust me.” 

 A fervor rumbled within the woman’s empty belly. “Do you think I am not exhausted, too? That I am not drained?” She asked, spitting at him. “Do you think you are the only one working for something? Who has needs?”

 With that, her husband flung the duvet to her side of the bed. He began walking towards the door. “I’m going to sleep on the couch,” he announced, as if this were the first time he’d chosen to sleep apart from her. He reached for the door handle.

 “No,” the woman objected. It was supposed to be resilient, and yet the quiver of her tongue made her protest seem more of a plea. “Please. I know you love me,” she croaked.

 “I do,” he replied, but not like he’d done on their wedding day. It was, to his wife, an I do that would respond to a question such as, Do you have a dollar I could borrow? or Do you like Bud Light? It was unfeeling, scripted. “I do love you,” he repeated hollowly, as if that would sedate her.

 The woman was unconvinced. “I have done everything for you,” she hissed. “I have always done what you’ve asked of me. I have been a good wife.” He turned to leave, but she continued. “I’ve followed you to this town. I’ve let you take out your anger on me. I’ve carried your child—”

 He turned around. “And where is our child?” He interjected. “Is it here with us?”

 The woman’s belly concaved. “That’s not fair.”

 Her husband stormed towards her, an armyman ready for combat. He put his hands on her shoulders—holding her, but not how she’d wanted him to. “You are a pitiful woman,” he taunted as he shook her back and forth. “You are barren and naive and used up. I hope no other man has to love what is left of you.”

 He let go, and she fell to the mattress.

 The woman was still as her husband made his way downstairs. She listened to the heaviness of his feet as he bounded down the staircase. She listened to his rustling through the cabinets, looking for the spare throw blankets. She listened to him climb on the couch, spread out, and lay his heavy head to rest. She listened to the silence of his slumber, to the soft hum of his satisfaction, to the gentle whisper of his greed.

 It was a cacophony.