|Image from here|
Nobody had said it would rain today. There had been no warning of dark clouds or thunderstorms. But it is there in her stance; the way she holds up her head, how she lets me plant my good morning kiss on her cheek, without leaning in like she would on a sunny day. I leave her doing last night’s dishes at the kitchen sink and go get ready for work. I tell myself that this time it would be different, but I already know how today will play out. The pattern is all too familiar now.
I’ll get into the shower, wondering all eight minutes of it whether this is my fault, whether I have done something wrong. I’ll play back the past month in my head, and at the ninth minute, while I’m drying myself, I’ll decide that no, this one isn’t about me. She will have that nameless look on her face during our cold, silent breakfast, and it will confirm that I have nothing to do with this weather.
I’ll shut the door firmly behind me when I go. I will leave her at home, but she’ll follow me around all day, hovering in my head with vacant eyes. Dark clouds will hang in the sky and block the sunlight. I will work late, trying to stretch out the hours till I have to see her again.
I will return home and the house will be still. She’ll be in the living room, staring at the muted TV. I’ll murmur good evening, pretend not to notice that she doesn’t answer. For a second, my anger will convince me that I don’t care; that I can ignore her pain, whatever it is. Then I’ll spend eight minutes in the shower, wondering what I can do this time to make her talk to me. While I’m getting dressed I’ll admit to myself that I have nothing new.
I’ll go to her and ask her – beg her – to say something. She’ll look through me, and then at me. Her lips will start to tremble and she’ll cry for hours. I will hold her and rub her back through it, and pray that the sun comes out tomorrow.