Snakes & Scoundrels

44: dark chocolate

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫

I've seen a lot of women in my life. Zealous for life, passionate for career, enthusiastic homemakers, lazy aunts, aimless Karens', spoilt Susans'—I can write a book on the kinds of women I've met. 

But growing up, I never found a relaxed woman. Successful women? Yes. Productive women? Plenty. Anxious and afraid and apologetic women? Heaps of them. But relaxed women? At ease women? Women who aren't afraid to take up space in the world? Women who prioritize rest and pleasure and play? Women who give themselves unconditional permission to relax - without guilt, without apology, without feeling like they need to earn it? I'm not sure I've ever met a woman like that. 

I want my wife to be a relaxed woman. I want her to care for herself first before worrying about anyone else. Women tend to put every other person in their close-knit circle on top of their precedence list. I want to take that responsibility off the woman of my life. 

You ask me why? Because I'm looking at a girl war-torn between sleep and reality, counting and quietly praying every minute for her grandmother's life while forgetting everything about herself. Where once her eyes were parabolic to sunshine, now an eclipse has taken over. Her hair is backed into a careless ponytail, her skin lacks hydration, her posture looks weak, her lips look pale, and her entire face defies the personality I've known her to be. There was a time when she made bets about topping the whole class but now here she is, unbothered about tomorrow's Math exam.

When Park Mellon hurt, everyone could see. And it was not a pretty sight. It was a sad one. It's like a garden of sunflowers drooping because the sun has disappeared. The worst part of it all? I could not do anything about it. 

Unable to look at her blanched face, I direct my focus to buy the list of prescribed medicines. Carol is well. But does she look it? No. Park is so positive about Carol's discharge by the end of this week, I'm not sure if she's overlooking the verity on purpose or unknowingly. The worst thing we can do now is take Carol home. Stage four lung cancer has its perks and cons. And now, I don't think we have many perks to celebrate. 

But I cannot just break this out to her like a casual conversation, can I? It's the doctor's job. Don't even get me started on Dr. Ryan Shepherd planting small new saplings of hope in her head. He's coveting reality for her. She may be in shock but I am not. His words don't match the reports. He says she's getting better but we're dumping a heap of medicines and pushing her into a million scanning machines every three hours—that is not better. 

The billing lady debits the amount from my tabbed card. I get an instant message and we both nod as she hands me the brown bag of yet another cycle of pain suppressants and drugs. I wheel around and I get the shock of my life when I see Andrew Perkins, my said therapist, in conversation with Park Mellon. 

I almost trip over my feet when I stride to them. If I so much as discover he's outed my feelings to her, I am sure to sue him over his vow of confidentiality. 

"Rainer," he greets me like he didn't just tamper around the biggest explosive in my life. "It's good to see you working on your sensitivity." I'm going to kill this guy. "You're finally taking my homeworks seriously." 

Pressing my popping vein along with my lips, I'm about to shoot back a caution but I suddenly catch Park Mellon smiling. Raw, soft, but a real smile. Just like that, my anger melts into an awkward pretentious laugh. 

"Park, here, tells me you've been a great help to their family," I do not like how he stresses her name. I nod. "Well, I'm looking forward to the next session. Take care," he tells both of us and walks into the opening doors of an elevator. 

Judging by his back, I panic if he's uttered anything out of line to her. I hesitantly turn to her but she's already looking at me with a twinkle in her eyes and mischief in her smile. Fuck my life, she knows something.