Playing House

Playing House

         He placed the brown paper bag and paper cupped drinks on the table in the corner. The bag was darkened on the bottom from French fry grease, reminding him to place a napkin underneath it. It isn’t much, he thought to himself, but it’s what she likes. He pulled two, warm, foil wrapped burgers out of the greasy bag, setting one in front of the empty seat where she would soon be and placing the other in front of him. She would be coming through the door soon and he wanted everything to be perfect. For a long while he sat there quietly fidgeting with his shirt, belt, and whatever was nearby. He reminded himself not to be nervous or fidgety. She didn't like it.

         Seconds later the door swung open and in she trudged. He noticed how tired she looked as she swung her purse down in a chair. Standing up nervously, he extended his arms for her to place herself in and receive his embrace. And she did, but returned the gesture awkwardly. After a second she pulled away from him and smiled wearily at the hamburgers laid out on the table. “That was nice of you.”

         He nodded, staring down at the floor sheepishly. Lowering himself into the seat to unwrap the foil from his burger, he glanced up at her as she took her seat, waited for her to join him. She didn’t start un-wrapping the foil and he responded with a questioning look. “I thought it was your favorite. Aren’t you hungry?” He asked with sincere concern.

         She shook her head glumly and tried to pass off a painfully insincere smile. “It’s been a… a long day. I’m just not hungry right now, I guess.” He surveyed her face, its heavy makeup that vainly tried to cover the wrinkles and crow’s feet that were pronouncing themselves more and more each day upon her weathered skin. She looked so tired; not tired in the sense that a good sleep would brighten her eyes or smooth her complexion, but tired in a world weary sort of sense. She looked physically, emotionally, mentally exhausted; but he still loved her.

         She sat there staring off into space as he finished off the last of his food and then tried to focus his attention on her. “So how’s your, uh, day been?” She shrugged her shoulders and continued her staring contest with nothing in particular. “Do you want to…” He swallowed, thinking of what to say. “…watch some television, or something?” She shook her head again, this time so slow it was hard for him to tell whether she was responding to the question or simply adjusting herself.

         He decided that she was shaking her head no, and sat quietly for a few seconds, leaning the rickety chair back into the wall. The silence was deafening, ringing out into the air with a low humming that makes one look for a vent somewhere. After a few painful seconds, he tried to break it. “Ummm…”

         Ignoring him, she stood up slowly, removed her shirt and walked over to the bed. He looked on with little surprise, but tidal waves of apprehension. She sat down on the bed and motioned for him to come over to her. “Look,” she started in “your wife has had a very long day and wants you to make it better." She curled a finger toward him seductively. "Come here.”

         He stood up hesitantly and then froze, not sure exactly what to do. Finally he sputtered, “Can we just talk for a little while? Ya know, tell me about your day... I can tell you about mine.”

         She sighed, obviously frustrated, and began putting her shirt back on. He sat back down in his chair, rested an ankle on top of a thigh, and began fidgeting with his shirt nervously. She stared at his restless fingers until he was reminded to stop.

         Sitting back down in a chair, she rolled her eyes, and sighed with obvious boredom. “Okay, tell me about your day then, since you wanna talk about it so bad.”

         He clenched his hands together; nervously. “Um, okay. I- well, I…”

         Stopping him short, she pointed at her watch. He closed his eyes and exhaled painfully. “Time’s up.” She reminded him.

         “I know, I know.” He whispered, more to himself than to her, shuffling over to the bathroom counter. Pulling out two twenties he closed his wallet and glanced up at the mirror above the sink.

         He cringed upon first recognizing the reflection as his own, although he had seen it so many times before. It still wasn’t easy for him to accept the deformed face as his. With no eyebrows, burn scars like melted candle wax, and his features cruelly misshapen by the fire two years before, he still didn’t want to recognize himself.

         His wife didn’t recognize him afterward, couldn’t be in a relationship that she said was the equivalent of sleeping with a stranger. So she left, and started a new life with an unscarred man. But who could blame her? He would remind himself, trying to be reasonable, but still devastatingly in love with her.

         He turned back to the visitor. “So, I guess you'll be here next week?” She nodded happily as he placed the forty dollars in her hand.

         “Like any good wife would be.” She answered with counterfeit cheer and a plastic smile.

         He sighed. “It’s okay,” he said, looking down at the dingy carpet, “You don’t have to act like my wife anymore. You’re off the clock, remember?” She offered an uncomfortable smile and spun back towards the door. He followed her out into the sun drenched parking lot, shutting the door to room 163 behind him.