***
This salmon is inedible. Maybe I should send it back. But
no. If I do, he’ll argue again and say that I’m never happy with anything. The
green beans taste like they have been - been- around this world for a very long time…
They’re off. But if I spit them out… here we go, he’s finally looking up from
the wine menu. He didn’t notice, I think. I wonder at which point the waiter
will realize that something is off here, and it isn’t the beans.
***
Having sex with her is like driving in the middle of the
field, instead of the highway. Lots of space, too much space. No, it’s rather
like lying on top of a very large frog… she is as cold as any reptile. And she
wouldn’t even know that frogs are amphibians and not reptiles. But she
definitely knows what I did or said ten years ago on a Tuesday. What a pity
that the only way to have decent food is to drag to a restaurant, rain or
shine. She thinks I like it, dammit. She thinks I am into refined foods…
gourmet. Gourmet my ass. Give me pasta any day, and I’ll be happy. But she can’t
even do that. The harder she tries, the less edible her food is. Damn, this
wine is not from the year they said it was. Gotta send it back… but then she’ll
say I’m never pleased with anything. Never mind…will have to drink what there
is.
***
If this silence carries on, I will vomit right onto this
starched table cloth. Just to get his attention. But even then, I bet, he won’t
even turn his head to me. He’ll mutter something offensive under his breath,
and storm out in a silent rage. His silence is far more scary than yelling… if
only he yelled. This way I don’t even know what he’s thinking. The wine is
turning in my stomach and coming up as liquid fire, right up to my chin. They
say women’s heart attacks begin as heartburn… this is no heart attack, of
course. This is the bile of my life coming up. No matter what I do, he won’t be
happy. If I cook, he is angry, and if I serve pizza for dinner, he is silent.
There is no pleasing him. Why am I even here….
***
I ought to remind them at work to close the windows for the
night… it gets chilly already at this time of year. Tomorrow’s drive will be
less than pleasant… If only she didn’t swell up like a doughnut in hot oil. Who
could possibly be attracted to those rolls of fat… I think I might vomit right onto
this starched tablecloth. We should really get divorced. She makes me sick.
When we got married, she had a rolling laughter, bouncy curls down to her
shoulders, and a walk of a ballet dancer. A tight butt… how I loved holding onto it
when I was in her… the sad, pathetic parody of the woman I married, that sits
opposite me now is nothing like what she was back then. But the windows, yes, I
really hope they closed them tonight.
***
I should stop with the potatoes… but it’s the only thing
that’s edible here. Of course I fill myself with junk, what else is there. Not
like he gives me any love or gifts or fun. I might as well have married a
boulder from the highway. He’s got no feelings… nothing alive about him. I get
him angry just to hear his voice. Silence rings in my ears when the kids are
asleep. But those rolls of fat… no wonder he doesn’t want me any more. I
deserve it. It’s a vicious circle. Even when he yells he doesn’t look at me.
God knows what I’ve done to disgust him so. He mustn’t see any tears… only when
he’s not home I can let myself really fall apart. But only when there is time
for it…
***
When the kids were little, they filled up the space and the
time. Now there is nothing left. Nothing but silence and disgust. Her body, her
voice, her tears… she thinks I don’t see. Disgusting. Depressive misery guts.
If only she would join the gym, or visit a shrink, or diet, or something. The
only thing I can do is to keep as far away as possible. So far I can’t even
smell the oil from her clothes. God knows why she must dollop whole litres of
oil into everything she cooks, and then smell of rancid oil. It’s gone into her
skin.
***
When the kids were little, he was so loving to me. I guess
when caring for the kids I forgot to care for him… and now he hates me, If only
I knew why… if I ask, he’ll say I imagined it. Maybe he faked it always… Not
when we were dating, and he couldn’t keep his hands off me, till my dad warned
him not to create a bastard… poor dad. Maybe I should join a gym, or diet… but
what’s the point. Even therapy won’t help me, it’s too late. Not like he is Mr.
Perfect, either. His own weight is obviously not an issue to him… or the dirty
shirts he insists on wearing day after day. He smells of old socks and something
micey… like a damp cellar. I should really force him to shower more often. And
now, when all the potatoes are finished, I will have to look up and say
something. Here is that heartburn, again. Not good.
***
Those girls were whispering about us the whole time. Of
course, a couple that just sits, eats, and leaves. I do realize how strange we
must’ve looked. Well, one day they might find out… or not. They might never
have a frog for a wife…or a husband. In fairy tales, frogs turn into princesses. Well, they
got it all wrong: in real life, it’s the other way around. You marry a
princess, and she eats, and eats, and eats… and keeps on eating, till it nearly
comes back out. Again she is going to complain of heartburn… she should just
eat less.
***
This rose outside the restaurant… this is whom I should’ve
had supper with. Much nicer to look at… she is beautiful. I could pretend she
is a friend, and then I wouldn’t be so lonely. I must be going senile… returning to childhood. She wouldn’t judge me for being fat. She’d just love me for watering
her.
The three girls hugged tight, watching a man weeping on his
knees over a heavy woman in a stripy jacket from some prehistoric fashion era, with
long oily hair, who just keeled over, face first, into a rose bush. The deep
gushes on her face were still oozing blood. The ambulance driver was manoeuvring
the stretcher out, insisting they must take the body now, and the family will
be promptly notified. No, there was nothing anybody could’ve done, sir. Her heart
just stopped, sir. Instantly, yes. So sorry for your loss, sir.
