Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

Your Wife

Your wife is cheating on you—it starts with the crippling thought. You let it sink into your head and seduce your reasoning. You let it tickle your insecurities and embrace your deepest fears—that you've never been good enough; that you will be replaced; that your one-minute thrusting and grunting, right before you climax, will ruin your marriage and drive her into the arms of another man. And it has. And you know it.

You see it now, in everything around you. You see it in the meals she serve you and the way she dumps the plate before you, right before she walks off. She doesn't sit with you anymore to tell you about the boring day she's had alone at home while watching you eat. And when you try to talk to her or thank her for the food, she just shrugs. Then her shoulders sink. Everything you do bores her, and you can't make her laugh anymore.

Even her food doesn't taste as good as it used to. The rice is too salty, as though prepared with her tears. And her stew? It tastes like cruel spices. You push the food away. Your wife is unhappy with you, and she's not afraid to show it. She stays away from you and spends too long in the bathroom. When she's around you, she covers every inch of her skin with a robe, like you're not worthy of viewing her flawless, brown skin.

When you walk into the bedroom, she turns to face the other way. She doesn't want you gazing into her eyes. You mount the bed, and it cringes under your weight. You hate when it cringes because you know your wife must be disgusted by the size of you. Your flabby chest. And your large, bulging stomach—so large, you don't see the thing between your legs anymore. Your wife lays next to you, petite, curled up in her corner.

You ask about her day. She doesn't reply. You ask what she spent her day doing, and that is when she turns to face you. There is a glint of sadness in her eyes, and her forehead wrinkles with lines of irritation.

"Are you interrogating me? When did this one start?" she says.

You shake your head with quivering lips. Why did she get so defensive? Because she must know you're beginning to suspect her. That's when the certainty settles in your heart. Your wife is definitely cheating on you. It is the only way to explain her mood swings that rocks from bitter to repulsed whenever you're close to her. It is why she spends such a long time in the bathroom every morning, as though waiting for you to go to work before she comes out.

One day, you press your ear against the bathroom door to know what she does in there for so long. That's when you hear it. The moaning. A soft sound spurring from her tender lips. The moans undulate like a passionate wave. She is touching herself, receiving pleasure without you.

Sometimes, the moaning is guttural, as though she just slid a finger or two inside. The image turns you on, and there's a bulge between your thighs. You want to knock on the door, to join her. You long to be with her. Then you remember. She doesn't want to be with you, and so you back away from the door, and the thing between your legs go limp again.

Later, she comes out, clad in her robe, and she walks away with satisfaction all over her face.

You've had enough. A new day comes, and you don't go to work—you decide you'll stay in the house and see how your wife spends her day; to see the man she brings into your marital bed and do things with him she once vowed to do with you alone. You'll see. Today.

You sit at the dining table, waiting. Your wife heads towards the bathroom, as usual, when she notices you just sitting there. She frowns.

"No work today?" she says.

You shake your head, and she walks into the bathroom. Soon, you go to the bathroom door and listen. The moaning starts. This time, they're deeper and more guttural. Passionate, like pleasure you can never give her. And soon, the moaning stops. You wait for her to walk out of the bathroom, to confront her, but she doesn't. You stand there, waiting some more, until your legs begin to ache. You drag a chair from the kitchen and sit before the bathroom, still, waiting for too long. Then you stand with a grunt, frustrated. You place your ear on the door again. There's no sound. You knock on the door and keep knocking, until your knocks grow to heavy bangs. They ache your knuckles, but you do not care. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your wife has gone too far this time. Does she really think she'll stay in the bathroom all day because you didn't go to work?

You won't allow it.

You begin kicking the door, ramming it with your heavy foot, and then running into it until it finally breaks open. You rush inside. The first thing you see is blood, and then more blood splattered everywhere like confetti. Your wife is naked, with her robe in the bathtub, and she's sitting on the floor with her eyes slightly shut. There's a blade beside her. Scars and fresh cuts are scribbled on her arms and her torso—blood still seeps from some. You fall on your fat knees and cry. You cry and cry, and sometimes you scream and punch the bathroom tiles.

Your wife is dead. All this time, she wasn't touching herself. She was cutting herself. She loved you, but she was battling depression alone.