Self-deception can be more comforting than self-knowledge. We like to fool ourselves.
Russ Roberts
The sound of an approaching vehicle outside caused her ears to perk. It took a moment’s pause, before she recognized the deep rumble of the engine and the crunching gravel beneath heavy tires.
He was home.
No doubt he’d be reeking of cheap beer or some other spirit he wished to poison himself with weekly. No doubt too there would be some excuse or other as to why he’d arrived home this late. Her bedside clock read 2:15am.
She sat up to the sound of rattling keys on the front door. Before stumbling footsteps told her, he was in the kitchen.
It was always the same routine. He’d rummage through the fridge first, pulling out leftovers, then the clinking of cutlery and dishes in the sink, followed by a shower, usually cold, and then he’d creep silently into bed, pulling the sheets toward him, before curling off to sleep, snoring blissfully.
It was always the same. Always.
She could hear him muttering quietly to himself, as the bathroom door slid shut with a click. The sound of the running shower was almost immediate. She counted slowly. He usually lasted less than a minute – around the same amount of time he spent between her legs she mused.
She turned over,moving closer to the far edge of the bed, knowing he would enter the room soon. She stared blankly at the glowing digits on her clock as it switched another minute.
Mentally she began a countdown from sixty seconds.
Almost on cue, the bedroom door opened quietly and he entered, he stumbled slightly, and began discarding his clothing to one end of the room, before she felt the mattress pull heavily to one end, as he sank into bed.
Moments later, he was snoring. She lay, back toward him, and when her clock chimed gently on 3am, she turned slowly to face him.
Her partner for 15 years. They’d rarely argued. A romance in college had turned into a chapel, bridesmaids in matching outfits and a honeymoon overseas. In 15 years, they’d given each other everything.
The years had changed her. The crow’s-feet around the eyes had become more pronounced and there was that slight weight gain, the dye kept away most of the greying.
But he hadn’t.
His only change were the streaks of white lining his temples. The stress from work he always said smiling, not old age.
He was still handsome. He’d mellowed nicely she thought. It wasn’t out of affection, these thoughts, more a matter-of-fact statement. That he remained muscular despite advancing years, told of a man dedicated to health.
She knew that on more than one occasion, it wasn’t the office or his boss that kept him away.
The darkened screen and messages on his phone, as well as the surreptitious calls he received late nights, all tell-tale signs.
She wasn’t stupid. That much she knew.
Time and again her own close friends had urged her to leave, words like “you can do better” and “you’re still beautiful”. If only she could believe those lies.
Yes the thoughts had occured, to just leave this convenient if loveless marriage. To find potential bliss in the arms of some faceless paramour.
Oh the offers had come thick and fast early on. The attractive and young, all vying for her attention.
She’d revelled in it ofcourse. A fancy house, the cars and expensive holidays. A wardrobe fit for a magazine’s catalogue.
But as time wore on, she’d grown indifferent to the monotypic conversations. They all began the same. The potent allure of comely charm, humor and overtures of friendship, before the false security of infidelity.
The ending, always the same.
Always.
Disappointment,dissatisfaction then contempt, as she’d refused to yield to seduction.
” Whore! Slut! Tart!” If she’d been named Jezebel, she thought wryly, it would have completed the quartet of vulgar synonyms.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of snorts and a flailing arm across her bosom, as her husband shifted position to nestle closer. He muttered something incomprehensible, before the snoring resumed.
She inhaled deeply and catching the faint feminine musk that lingered about his neck.
Gently she pried his arm away, and sat up, reaching under the bed for the lighter she kept there, as well as the packet of menthols she favored.
She knew he detested the cigarettes. A decade ago, she’d promised to quit. But ten years of late nights, uneaten dinners, and missed birthday’s had taken its toll.
Opening the bedroom door, she walked out to the verandah. A cool breeze had cleared the sky of mosquito’s.
She sat on a chair beside the verandah’s rail and reached for her ashtray, filled with a dozen half-smoked butts, remnants of what she’d smoked earlier.
She placed a cigarette to her lips and lit it.
She inhaled deeply, savouring the calming effect of the dopamine coursing through her being.
She’d always found solace in these late hours.
Overhead, the sound of a plane traveling the dark skies. She imagined some foreign maybe exotic destination awaiting its arrival.
She imagined its passengers, dreary in cramped seats, the constant humming of the engines making real sleep almost impossible. It made her smile, knowing she had a place to sleep well at least.
The plane faded into the distance and nature again dominated the night.
Nearby she could hear a bird chirping. A tree sparrow most lilely. She’d read somewhere, that birds sometimes got confused with the lights from buildings, thinking it was daylight.
She stared into the distance. The black skies had a hint of purple. Dawn would be breaking soon, and with it, the deception of the early morning smiles during breakfast, the perfunctory kiss on the cheeks and the usual “call me if you need anything” before the hasty escape to his car and he’d be gone.
She killed her cigarette, and entered the house, locking the door behind her.
She’d have to brush her teeth before climbing into bed, and walked toward the bathroom, blinking as she switched on the lights.
Carefully squeezing paste onto her toothbrush, she stared at her reflection over the bathroom sink. Her lips were thin and darkened, the circles under her eyes had become more pronounced, and there was another long strand of white hanging across her forehead.
She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth off. Licking the edges of her teeth. They’d yellowed. Tonight had accomplished nothing more than to remind her to buy a new mirror.
She placed both hands on the sink and closed her tired eyes.
She recalled her wedding vows, the promises made, that had ended with to love and to cherish. Both she knew, while waning, were still to be kept.
It was an almost futile concept, to love and cherish. Our vows should have read I promise to clarify expectations, she thought.
Breathing in deeply, she turned off the bathroom light and walked quietly back into the bedroom.
Her husband now lay facedown, sprawled across the bed. She stared at him a moment, before moving closer, moving his legs away to make space for herself, before placing her head gently on a pillow to pull the covers close. She closed hers eyes.
It was always the same. Always.