Day to Remember

The pillow next to him was empty. She must have left for work already. No note, no kiss, nothing. He slid his hand across her cold pillow and figured that she woke up early so as not to see him before leaving, and stormed off, still mad. Turning over onto his back, he stared at the white ceiling and dancing glares from passing cars that occasionally lingered there. 

They had another fight yesterday, latest in a long series of fights, and although he felt hurt and loathed her at the moment, he honestly could not remember what caused the conflict. He hated when she left without saying goodbye, hated when he had to find out about her day from her long phone conversations with her many friends, hated when she came home late without so much as a phone call to warn him. 

The memory of the previous clash was still fresh in his mind: a festive white cloth over the dinner table, candles, and a three course dinner that he labored over from the time a new, freshly rested, sun looked into the kitchen until the time when it wearily set in the bedroom. Enter his wife, two hours late, because "there was an urgent case that had to be filed." Of course, she did not call ahead, of course, the dinner was cold and the day wasted, and of course, he was understandably upset. The rest was meticulously wiped away. He was tired of the shouting, of constant misunderstandings, and the pain they persistently inflicted upon each other. 

The memory of how he felt that evening further infuriated him now and although he still did not remember why they were mad at each other this time, constant hostility and pain were exhausting. All he wanted now was some peace and quiet, and he vowed that he would not be the first to make up, not this time. 

Pleasant morning sleepiness, when all you want to do is roll around in bed, from one side to the other and back, was irretrievably gone and their bed, where they spent so many pleasant minutes together, now seemed unbearable. He threw the blanket off angrily, like a poisonous snake, and jumped out of bed, as if it had broken glass instead of silky white sheets. 

Without getting dressed, he stomped over to the kitchen, barefoot. She did not even make coffee, knowing that he would be able to drink it too, undoubtedly buying herself one on the way to work instead. 

"Three years together this autumn," he thought bitterly while chewing and swallowing a dry biscuit, "almost three years together and she could not even leave breakfast." Even if they were not talking to each other, he would have made breakfast for two - she was not a stranger to him after all. In frustration, and because he could not bear to swallow another bite, he smashed what remained of the biscuit over the nearest wall, pressing his forehead to the cold surface of the kitchen table and closing his eyes to try and calm down. 

He still remembered the day when they got married - a day to remember, one that he would never forget. She looked at him with such adoration, devotion, and love... And he, he was a babbling idiot, with a stupid little smile stuck to his face. He smiled, as his mind went back to a happier time, remembering how little sense he made that day, how he kept staring at her face, and how nothing else existed. It was an embarrassing memory, but all the more dear for it. 

How did they reduce to this? Quarreling at least once a week, cold and distant with each other - like two strangers who are forced to share an apartment. What happened to that warmth, to those vows, to that love? 

Outside, and in the present, it was a warm and sunny September morning, even if slightly windy. One of those mornings that make it hard to believe the summer was already over; one of those days that feel squandered sitting in the classroom or in the office. However, despite open windows and sun beaming in, the apartment seemed cold. He involuntarily shivered. The wooden floor, table and even the chair all seemed icy, but worst of all was the freezing emptiness inside.