Your second call home

Your second phone call this evening was so telling. You were so brief in your first, as you always are these days, so much so that the facts are unclear. Like you were coming home from where? I’m going surfing you texted at 3:30; I asked “Now? Where?” Later you said it was the best ever surf, so clueless even now.

You responded “South. Not sure.” Not addressing the point that you are always so busy that you don’t get home until after dinner, usually. Yea, whatever, the love is so gone, you can’t be bothered to answer honestly about anything, as if you ever did. But yet, you can’t be bothered to just say it, anything, ever.

I had it all figured out. How to find another place, that we could afford, it could be respectful. It could’ve been over already. You could treat me with respect, be honest. But what about the kids, you said, I was sad and discouraged, such shallowness should be expected, I guess. You swore all over the place, even to the therapist, it was only the one, you never had another affair, you said. But I knew the first time, before I really knew, before the shit hit the fan, and I found her underwear in our bed.

Well, I just know now, again; but the level of deceit is astounding, and wrenching, not only was there more than the first, but others know about more. Others are involved, the deceit rotting me. How could I be so fucking stupid? But I am not, because I know, but you still live in denial in the extra bedroom.

“Hello.” I answered with a sigh, trying not to sound too annoyed, did he think I hung up on him, I wondered. Maybe he didn’t recognize my voice?

Your voice was a husky release of breath, like I haven’t heard on the phone in ages, “How’s it going?” It was almost kind, like you really cared. Maybe you did about her. I was just around the counter again, from hanging up the first call with you, getting back to the spaghetti that was about to boil over. I didn’t make a vegetable, though I tried. I had the energy to do a little more, I thought, but the broccoli was so rotten. How had I let it go so long, it’s just been so hard to cook, something I usually love.

“What do you mean, we just did this!” I answered impatiently

“Oh, I, no…” I kept talking over your voice that suddenly sounded surprised, maybe panicked a bit, I realized later.

“I am in the middle of fixing dinner,” I said then realized, “you didn’t know you were calling me back again, did you think you were calling someone else.” It wasn’t even a question in my mind. Still, you don’t admit it.

“Hmph? No,” you snorted, sounding insulted and mean, like it is my fault, as usual. Still, you don’t admit it. This time I did hang up. Still, you are home, and we have no words for each other.


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