The Hard Love

~4~

Asher POV 

I step out of the building and realize how much time I spent in that office building. The sun was long gone, drowned below the horizon hours ago, with the dark blue blanket of stars spread over me. 

I quickly drive away in my Dodge to my home. I lived in those little chic Victorian apartments with little vintage windows and intricate designs adorned on them. It was a classic and vintage with vibes that resonated with the medieval times—something my wife really adored. The age of creativity and discovery being unmasked in the forms of art. The renaissance. 

Something I should have expected from a French actress/model. Or was she both? I really couldn't bring myself to care. 

I unlock my door and get in. The house smells perfumed. Agathe must have been home already. I toss my keys in the kitchen basket, the little cracked heart jingling. Why was it even a cracked heart? Why does it even say "Best Friends" on it? Me and Agathe are married. We probably make the best of friends but the cracked heart concerned me. Why is it cracked? We aren't a heartbroken couple. In fact, we are really a happy couple, envied by most people. People probably gossip about us on tea. 

It was a sense of pride I had over that. Some sense of pride. Or maybe not pride. Perhaps something less like one of the deadliest sins. Of course, it's not pride. It has to be gratefulness.  I'm grateful for a beautiful wife and I'm grateful for this happy relationship (so happy that people are constantly envying it). 

I check the fridge for dinner. Nothing, except last night's leftover Hakka noodles. I take them and check for any odd smells. No odd smells. It's good. I heat it and I sit down at the kitchen table to eat. 

"Last night's, isn't it?" a soft French accent uttered. I looked up and stopped eating momentarily and the noodles hung down from my mouth dripping. 

"Um yeah". 

"You seriously didn't try my steak? I spent hours on that". Guilt wrapped me under its covers instantly.

"I couldn't find it. Where is it?". 

"In the dustbin". 

"Oh honey," I said my voice dripping with guilt. I tried to say something but couldn't find those words of apology. Where were they again? Is this my arrogance again? 

"Oh Asher, don't sweat it," she mumbled sarcastically and took the seat next to me. 

Awkward silence evolved. And the rate at which it grew could be compared to possibly any natural disaster. A flood probably, flooding into this room and drowning us in its waves of the awkward silence which we brought upon ourselves by daring each other to cut the awkwardness. 

"So how's work?" she asked me and I stared at her suddenly forgetting everything I knew. 

"It's um-it's great. How's yours?".

"Oh, nothing much actually. Except for the fact that everything is going downhill like a fucking landslide. Peachy everything is peachy," she said calmly with a hint of sarcasm. I felt bad, but for what I really don't know. Maybe for what I anticipated for myself in my unconsciousness. 

"Oh honey," I said pleadingly almost as I extended my hand to her back. She brushed it off quickly. 

"Why am I the only one to apologize for being late, huh? Why me?" she asked me shooting daggers at me, which I gave scanty efforts to dodge and lowered my gaze. 

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice so soft it's barely audible. 

"Oh don't overdo it," she scoffed and she got up to leave. End of conversation. Moral learned? Don't overdo it.