Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

IX

Today is the day. The day I will be executing plan B. Tonight, I will be laying it all on the line in hopes that things change for the better. Though to my knowledge so far, things do not seem to be bound for any destination other than the worst.

There's been no change. If I wanted to be honest, I would say that things have gotten worse. He ignored me most of the time before my mother's visit. But now, afterwards, he just pretends I don't exist. There are no words of anger or frustration directed at me. He instead acts as if I'm transparent and stares over, to the side of and right through me whenever we run across each other in the house.

No words can explain how I feel. It's hard to express in mere clauses and stunted phrases the emotions that steadily trundle through my being these days that pass by. A shocking surprise is the fact that I still have the strength to carry on and even consider doing my daily chores to the utmost perfection that will please him.

When I think of the nights we spend together with the collection and assorted arrays of pillows that have since Ma came by been assembled in a firm straight line that wedges us both apart on our bed, I wonder how I'm not bawling like a child at my failure to be a wife that her husband desires.

Maybe it's because the tears are thinning, drying out like there's a drought in the wells behind my eyes. It must be so because how else can I explain this shortage of salty waters throughout this pain that I can't for the life of me come to terms with? I haven't, can't reconcile myself to this torture. I want it to end. I want him to be mine already.

As I work, the many musings in my head pile up and whirl around, disconcerting and pulling my weak grips on reality off and into a whole new world where all is cotton candy and soft sweet chocolates and perfect and right.

Everything else dissolves, falling apart as I shift my limbs like a robot—moving with short, separate steps. The whirring of the vacuum no longer calls out to me, the humming of the air conditioner no longer registers in my head, the sound of the fridge intermittently running no longer stands out to me. I'm lost. Lost in my head.

I mechanically scrub down the pots used to cook the food that Tony did not eat this morning before he left for work, then the plates I served myself with. When I shift to my right, empty takeouts lazing on the counter cause me to frown unconsciously.

Who knew fast food restaurants could be such hindrances in one's marriage? If only they could not exist for one day, wouldn't my husband be forced to eat the food his wife diligently and consistently cooks for him? Wouldn't he?

He does not know how his refusal to eat my meals are completely humiliating to me. It injures my dignity and debases my pride when—which is always—he regards me as if he has made the conclusion that I am not worthy enough of his affection. At this point I have to wonder, am I even?

Dumping the takeaway in the dustbin draws my attention to the trash just about overflowing. I tie up the bag and place another in the garbage can, pinning it down with a small knot by its side so it remains secure.

The running water as I wash my hands afterwards does not barricade out the unabating sighs that plop out of my mouth like they are pebbles rushing clumsily into the stream of water swirling in the sink before dancing down the drain.

I sigh again, louder to my ears after shutting the tap's mouth, now with no water to cushion the sound. I am neither physically tired nor experiencing any feelings of sorrow, but I am exhausted as I know I have to face and finally do what I have been avoiding since my wedding before I can map out my tactics.

In the top drawer sitting at a far left from the sink, I pick out a fresh kitchen towel to dry my wet fingers before draping it over one of the four hooks attached to the wall. My phone burdens down like lead in the back pocket of my shorts afterwards as I reach for it while making my way back to the bedroom.