ACHES

26. insane

I woke up, throat tight. I was still slumped on the couch, in my clothes from the day before. I saw the faint remnants of the wine stain, blotchy but subtle. I traced the edges of it, hating the bumpy texture of the couch on my fingertips. I was nauseous, disoriented, and aching. I could feel how swollen my eyes were. I must have cried longer than I remembered.

I made my way to our bathroom, brushing my teeth and rinsing my face. I didn't look in the mirror. I went to our bedroom, finding him folding clothes into a suitcase.

"Good morning," I mumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed. My voice was gravel, scratching its way out of my throat.

"Morning, sweetheart," he zipped the suitcase closed, pulling it off the bed. He set it onto the floor.

"Are you leaving?" I murmured.

"Just for the weekend, remember?" He put his hands into his pockets, blinking at me slowly.

"I thought you were going tomorrow."

"Nope," he shrugged, moving to leave.

"Wait," I said, standing from the bed. He stopped, head tilted to listen. "You didn't bring me to bed."

He laughed, "You have two good legs, don't you?"

"You didn't yell at me, either."

"I never yell at you," he frowned, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Sometimes you should yell at me."

This made him rub a hand into his forehead, "Please, let's not start anything. I'm about to leave." He walked to me, cradling my head in his hands. He kissed the top of my head. "I'll see you in a few days, okay?"

"Take me with you."

He raised an eyebrow, "You don't do planes, though."

I swallowed, "I'll do it."

"No, you won't," he sighed, "I'll be back before you know it."

"You don't want me to come?" I was being childish.

"Stop it," he pulled me to his chest, hugging me tightly. "You don't even believe that."

"You don't want me around, lately." This I believed. I was shuddering, containing sobs in my constricted throat. "You didn't take me to bed."

He huffed, "You were completely passed out on the couch. What did you want me to do? I thought you should sleep."

"I don't like sleeping without you."

"Don't get so drunk, then." He let go of me, stepping back.

"You don't spend any time with me. You don't even want to fuck me."

He rolled his eyes, "That's not fucking true."

"Explain last night, then," I pressed my lips together, letting a tear slip down my cheek.

"I already apologized, I had to work. When I came by to check on you, you had spilled wine all over my fucking couch." He pulled his hand through his hair. He waved a hand at me, "I'm not mad about the wine. It's all fine. I told you, I don't want to fight. Let's just leave it, okay?"

"It's our couch." I whispered.

"What?"

"You said my couch. My fucking couch. It's our couch."

"Yes, our couch, I'm sorry."

"I'm moving out."

He stared at me, eyes wide. Mouth opening and closing.

"I'll be gone when you get back," I sobbed, and walked past him. He followed me into the kitchen, keeping quiet. I started collecting the dirty dishes, stacking them on the counter. He put a hand on my shoulder.

"Stop," he urged, grabbing my wrist, "Stop."

"What?" I spat, face burning. I pulled my wrist from his hand, and watched pain flash across his eyes for a moment, like lightning.

"I'm sorry I've been busy," he said, soft and careful. "I'm sorry I haven't spent enough time with you."

I nodded.

"But you have to trust me. You know I love you. Enough of this," he spun a hand, pursing his lips. "Don't pick fights with me."

I leaned against the counter, breathing slowly. "I'm not picking fights. I'm trying to tell you that I'm lonely."

"I can't do anything about that."

I scoffed, "Of course you can."

"I'm not the reason you're lonely."

"Shut up," I frowned.

"You're always lonely. No matter what I do."

"You're uninterested. You only touch me to calm me down. I'm lonely because only your body is here. Your mind is... It's somewhere else." I was scrambling to get the words out, in between gasps and sobs.

He thought about this for a moment.

"I don't feel that way."

"Are you sleeping with someone else?" I asked, the words ringing through the house. The question pulled the warmth from the room.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

He looked down, "No."

"I fucking knew it," I covered my mouth with my palm.

"I don't want to sleep with anyone else," he insisted, confused.

"I know you're lying."

"I'm not fucking lying!" He yelled. He yelled.

"Go ahead, then," I said, taking a steady breath. I wasn't crying anymore. It was a numb, thin sense of bliss, controlling the anger tightening my chest. "Sleep with her. Get it out of your system."

"God, you're fucking insane," he laughed, "I would never sleep with anyone but you. Never."

"Fuck her, then come home to me. I'm sick of this."

"I don't want to!"

My lips parted, mind emptying. "Who is it?" I was far away, I wasn't here, I was somewhere else. I was below the earth, scratching for the surface. I was nestled deep in a dripping cave, wet and mossy. I was untouched and buried.

"What are you talking about?" he sighed, but I saw the pink on his cheeks.

"Who is it?"

He turned, grabbing his suitcase from the bedroom. "I"m not talking to you like this," he called, pacing to the front door. "I'll see you in a few days."

He slammed the door closed behind him.

I sat on the kitchen floor.