Silence Between Us

 "I love you."

"Yup," he replies as he shuts the door behind him and stomps out into the rain to head to work.  

Katherine whispers a little prayer for him as she turns her eyes from the window where his taillights are already fading into the distant darkness.  She can feel her heart harden and says the prayer more to keep it soft than for her moody and distant husband.

Is his heart already hardened?

Is she over-thinking his lack of love and affection towards her?

Katherine returns to the dining room table and sips her bitter coffee.  It feels hot and strange in her stomach as the acid wells up into her throat.  The stress has given her chronic reflux, but giving up coffee feels like having yet another thing taken away from her.  She ponders the great void she feels within her, empty and hollow.  She feels weak and depressed because there is nothing there to feed her....and it takes so little to feed her.  

A simple, "I love you," in return.

"Make me look forward to you coming home," she pleads in her heart.  Instead, she dreads it.  Every evening he pulls into the driveway, slams on the brakes, throws it into park with a jerk, and gathers up his gear with yanks and jerks.  Dark-faced, he stomps up the stairs, and if the door isn't opened for him, he throws his gear against it was an agitated "bang" until someone does.  Then, even if Katherine is waiting there with a smile and a sweet hello, he furrows his brows and stomps past her, boots leaving clumps of mud and dirt in his wake.  

The children run up to greet him and it's always a mystery whether he embraces them or barks at them to get the hell out of his way, he has to take a piss.  Heaven forbid anyone is using the bathroom if he does.  The dog gets the most love, though.  He always has the most sweetness for the dog.  

Katherine relives the daily routine in her mind as her coffee grows cold.  She stands there like a fool, hurt and sadness welling up inside her, but a smile plastered on her face.  She can't say anything.  It'll ruin the whole evening and make him cross with everyone and everything for days to come.  The children need whatever is left of his good mood.  She returns to the stove to finish up making dinner.

Her husband stomps back in, dirty boots still on, grinding dirt into the floor.  She'll have to sweep it.  She can't run the vacuum in the evening.  He's watching TV.  Katherine looks at her husband hopefully.  Maybe now he'll give her a greeting.  She's only asking to see if he's happy to see her.  He does, in a way.  He marches up behind her, peering over her shoulder to see what's cooking and to grab a handful of her breast.  She'd have preferred a hug from behind, a kiss on the neck, and an, "I'm so happy to be home."  Instead, he wrinkles his nose a little, leans against the counter right in the way of her food prep, and begins in heavily f-word-peppered daily tirade about all the idiots at work.  

Katherine sighs inwardly, but keeps her face steady lest he notice and question her.  She's sick to her stomach over hearing him bitch and complain every single evening about work.  It'd be one thing if he needed to vent about a bad day at work once in a while, but it is every single night.  She looks at the meat sizzling in the pan in front of her and realizes she has lost her appetite.  Is this why he wrinkles his nose?  When you're so full of bitterness is there no room for good food?

Practiced responses to his daily tirade come out of Katherine's mouth, but she's a million miles away in her mind.  She moves automatically as she works around his immovable fortress blocking her workspace and gets dinner on the table.  This added level of thoughtlessness on his part is salt in the wound and every f-word and blasphemy is a dagger in her gut.  Dinner looks positively revolting, now.  

He only pauses his monologue when the children say grace in which he stares at them steel-eyed and doesn't participate.  As soon as they are done and he's had a mouthful of food, he's back to his complaining.  If they are lucky, he ends it and asks the children about their days.  The children, rarely Katherine.  Katherine waits until the children have had their say and then starts talking about her day, anyway, but his eyes are turned down to his plate and his non-committal, "that's nice," tells her that he isn't listening.  So, she stops, mid-story, and sure enough, after a moment of silence, he picks up on another topic.  

Dinner, finishes, he finally kicks off his boots and leaves them tossed to the side.  The children clear their plates and his, and everyone retreats to their bedrooms, leaving Katherine to the cleaning up.  She knows she can ask any of the children to help her, but she's so hollow inside, it is just easier to do it herself.  Sometimes, loneliness alone is far more tolerable than loneliness with others around. 

He's in the bedroom, TV blaring, laying in bed in his dirty work clothes, feet up on the clean laundry she hadn't put away, yet.  Another noise emits from behind the bedroom door.  He's playing on his phone, too.  Katherine stares at the door for a minute.  

"He works hard, and if this is what he needs to relax then who am I to complain about it.  If I don't like it, then I can get a job and he won't have to work so hard," she reasons with herself.  "I'd be mad if he disapproved of how I need to relax.  Just because it's different doesn't mean it's bad.  He grew up in a house that always had the TV blaring even if everyone was doing other things."  

Still, she can't help but wish he'd be more thoughtful and considerate.  

She decides to rescue the clean laundry and enters the bedroom with a forced calmness and smile on her face.

"Here, dear, let me get these clothes out of your way," she says as she pulls the pile out from under his feet.  

He heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes a little, as he emphasizes shifting his weight at her interruption.  Even when she is so very careful with her words and actions he has to act like he's the victim, the bad guy. 

Katherine squeezes her eyes shut at the thought of it and realizes it is probably because his conscience pricks at him but he's learned to buck and kick against the feeling rather than learn from it.  This is why Sunday mornings are the worst.  As Katherine gets herself ready for church, he does whatever he can to squash his Jiminey Cricket.  He'll find foul and vulgar videos to watch a full volume.  He'll encourage the boys to stay home.  He'll sigh heavily and roll his eyes when she says good-bye.  

Katherine learned a long time ago to not ask, hint, or encourage him to attend church, or to even express or show her sorrow and disappointment.  She can save that for the Lord in prayer.  But, at home, she must be chipper and indifferent.  She feels like she is cooperating with the devil in these lies, but the thought of the alternative makes her cower.  

Back at her dining room table, and now cold cup of coffee, Katherine asks God what to do about all of this, but hears and feels nothing in return from the Almighty.  

"Well," she says to herself.  "I can't play the victim all morning.  I've already wasted enough time.  He's out there working hard.  I should be working, too."