Twice Shy

03 TWICE SHY

The journey back was silent, almost too silent. Ilyaz grasped the steering wheel with so much force his knuckles had whitened. Once as he pulled over the street randomly, I thought that was it. "This is where he buries my dead body." But he only leans over me to secure my seatbelt, and I can finally breathe. Given how angry he was, I'm glad that he didn't punch a hole through the seat instead while he leaned the weight on the palm on the leather beside my face. Don't get me wrong, Ilyaz was a calm person— but almost a bit too calm, and you know what they say about such people. They were a ticking time bomb.

When he finally parks in front of our house, the silence breaks. My eyes instinctually close, hoping I'd be gone from other's sight if they're gone from mine. But that doesn't wipe me, or his voice off into white noise.

"Edinburgh? Are you serious?"

"Was it such a minor detail that you forgot to discuss with me, and the first time I hear it is in a room full of your co workers in the middle of a board game? Edinburgh is four hours away, Ilyana."

Ilyana— but what he actually means is Mrs.Ali. His workplace, his family and friends, they were all here. As a consequence, it's my responsibility to adjust to his life, to be his wife by his side. That is what he means, and the platinum band around my finger grows tighter, cutting my circulation.

It's moments like these I felt small again, like an unreasonable child. But despite how much I hated it, the shop was close to being collapsed. Ilyaz loves it though, I'm sure he'd love it if I became a housewife entirely dependant on her husband, that he can toss aside whenever he wishes.

"It's only two if we move to Durham first, and barely an hour to Yorkshire."

Ilyaz stays quiet after my words. His expression is unreadable, it is neither approving nor disapproving. He bites his cheek— a movement I know better is what he does when he's deep in thought.

He gets out of the car first, and opens the door for me. Of course. It's not a courtesy or a token of affection anymore, it's intended to be a retort, as if saying "I'm-being-the-bigger-person-again-so-you-don't-have-to", like I'm being a spoiled child with ridiculous demands. I don't have the patience to look at him anymore, and I don't. Then I wait as he unlocks the door.

Mr and Mrs.Ali, it reads.
And of course it does.

Home Sweet Home.

___________________________________

The worst part about the incident from yesterday is how quick Ilyaz forgets it. And of course he does. Since it involves me, it has to be buried under the rug. Right now, we were making lasagna and cinnamon rolls, one tray we were supposed to bring over to his parent's house tonight.

He offers me the spatula for a lick, which I refuse because he could be trying to poison me with salmonella, and Ilyaz shrugs it off, planting a kiss on my forehead instead. He's being sweet, and if I bring up yesterday's conversation now, I'll come off petty. It's a strategy he uses against me, he always acts sweet and bakes my favourite desserts when we're about to have an argument. He shuts me up so he doesn't have to deal with me.

This marriage is a game of marionette for him, the strings are tied around my wrist while him and our families pull them as they please.

He cooks well, and I don't. It's one of the many matters his mother loves to taunt me for. I love that he cooks well though, I love many other things about my husband as well. I just do not love my husband.

I have a list of things I love about him, which help surge my love percentage for him after we fight. When it's raining or it's cloudy, he always carries an umbrella in case I forget to, he sidles up to park beside the sidewalk so I don't have to step out on the mud. He keeps a pair of my sandals, which is a pair of fuzzy wampa slippers, in the back of his car if I need to change out of my heels.