A sort of Flash Fiction piece…
Big, Little Lie
Some mornings she hugged him with true affection. Some mornings while kissing his scratchy face, she pictured the house without him, clean and organized with fresh flowers on the mantel and all repairs done and the couch that the cats destroyed reupholstered. And she was smiling, drinking coffee, content.
Of course, she knew in reality it was more likely she’d be scrambling into a business suit with wet hair while finishing making the kids’ breakfasts and lunches and trying not to bark at them. Then she’d head off to some nebulous 8-to-5 job that allowed them to stay in the slowly decomposing house.
In response to his “I love you,” she still told him “I love you too,” and most days, some days it felt genuine. On others, it felt like a little lie. When he hugged her in the kitchen, while she held a carton of milk mid-transport to the table, it was cute. Some days she giggled. She was not so cold to ignore her own need for affection, nor take it for granted. But when he cupped her breasts while she cut orange slices at the counter, she sometimes felt panic rise. He might want to make love. Not that they had time. Not on a weekday morning. On confident days she could turn around, find his hardness, and squeeze it, feigning playfulness. Other days, despite her best efforts, she jerked away and hoped she didn’t hurt his feelings.
It had become a daily roulette spin. Perhaps, she thought, this is just part of a long-term relationship of adults with children, this period of questioning, a phase of pretending, of maintaining. It wasn’t like there was anyone else. Besides, she saw the effect of divorce on her kids’ friends, on her girlfriend Sam who was in recovery as an adult. It was never easy for children.
One morning, while loading the dishwasher after he left, before starting her own work, she inflated with a sudden inspiration. A date night would help them reconnect. Some of their friends had regular date nights. She texted him with the news, before opening her laptop to look at the calendar.
But that week, he was going out with his buddy Jasper on Monday, she had a PTA meeting on Tuesday night, Thursday night Sophie would be squeaking on her clarinet in the elementary school band concert, and Saturday night was the Auction Night fundraiser. She would be wearing that silly long apron with the dozen pockets full of cheap plastic prizes selling raffle tickets while her husband tended bar, guffawing with the guys in the Dads Club.
On Saturday morning, she decided, I will make love with my husband. He often complained that they didn’t have enough sex. Whenever he did, she felt like she was in some bad romance comedy movie or 90s sitcom. But she understood. Or tried to. Sometimes she thought she wanted more love-making too. But mostly she was tired and made grocery lists in her head and worried that the kids might hear her moans or run into the bedroom the moment she managed to relax into the sensations. Still, she should make an effort.
On Saturday morning, Bryan vomited all over his SpongeBob pajamas and the bathroom floor at five in the morning, some kind of stomach bug.
So, she kept living her little lie, which some days wasn’t a lie.
Until that surreal Sunday night after the kids had gone to bed, when he asked if he could talk to her, a business smile on his face, the kind you offer a stranger as you shake their hand at a party. He led her to the kitchen table, which was still littered with crumpled cloth napkins and unused forks from dinner. Wringing his hands and taking a lot of deep breaths, he told her he had met someone else, that he was in love with this woman, that he wanted to separate and divorce but that he wanted what was best for the children, given the situation, so he would work with her to make the transition the best it could be.
That night, because this woman was evidently out of town and he had nowhere else to go and of course, neither did she, they slept in the same queen-sized bed, each on the far end, or she tried to sleep while he snored. She lay on her side, her back to him, numb, her feet cold, listening to his sounds as if they were some stranger’s, trying not to think about tomorrow, somehow cognizant that emotions would come, a whole lot of them. She could feel herself on a precipice of blame, of herself, of him. It was pointless really. Suddenly she found herself laughing, an involuntary, silent, maniacal-type of laughter wet with tears.
Hers had been just a little lie. His was a big, little lie.