This is one of the short fiction practices we did for class last spring. It’s simply about a married woman who self-doubts and creates poor assumptions about her husband.
I don’t know why I keep exploring themes of marriage and trust. Nevertheless, happy reading.
Here’s where they can get out of the city, where they can hide in the rustles of the trees – distance away from the hustle and bustle, and furthest from the screeching silence between them, two bodies resting on the same bed.
Every evening it would take a long commute just for him to give a dry peck on her cheek, no hugs. She, however, would pretend it was all the same as it has been three years ago – ever since they’ve vowed their “I do”s and reminisce the feel of his lips cushioning on her cheek, and she would turn pink. They would go to rest, with her wrapped in his arms.
Now, the distant memory plays like an old movie in her head.
She got out of the bed. He even brought a suitcase to this escapade. Escape from where? She thought it was the crowded streets, the honking cars, the giant skyscrapers, and all that they’ve agreed with each other in the first place.
No, we’re not on a dry spell, she tells herself, like she does everyday. Not until she saw something blue, a tiny baby blue cotton panty sandwiched in-between his endless manila folders. She swallowed hard. Her gulp was probably ringing in his ears, as he suddenly stopped snoring.
All through the night she wept. Her body oceans apart from his arms. She watched him silently, he was breathing in and breathing out again, loud like a filthy pig. He must have drifted away into his dreams once more, must be involving the mistress of that thong.
Tree leaves tremble, she quivered. The night was cold, terribly cold.