On the Clock

Let me tell you about this one incident that I remember having with my husband the other day. He said he would be back early (he always says that), and I waited for him just like he asked me to, but he didn’t come back early. I should stop expecting him to come back early. I waited for him for four hours—that’s four fucking hours—and I admit I was a fool for ever trusting him. That’s what I always do, though. I keep on thinking he’s gonna come back early. What a fool I am. 

I should mention that I was sitting at home while this was happening. My husband, well, he’s always going out to the bar after work. Sometimes before work. Sometimes during the day. What I’m trying to say is that he’s always at the fucking bar. I swear he has a whole nother family at the bar that he hasn’t told me about. He says he has tons of friends at the bar, but the way they act—and I’ve met them—has me thinking he couldn’t possibly be going to the bar every day to see those friends of his. He has an entire family there, I swear. Maybe not a family; I don’t know what he has down there, but it’s something. 

It was around four o’clock when I got home, and I called him up to say that I wanted him home for dinner by five-thirty. I said five-fucking-thirty, and the motherfucker said, “Sure, honey, see you later.” See you later, my ass. I made dinner and everything. I made some really nice hamburgers, which I realize is not that special of a meal, but I was tired. Anyway, I made dinner and everything and five-thirty came and went and he wasn’t there. I kept thinking he’d arrive any second, any fucking second, but he never did. I swear to God I should stop expecting him to keep his word. He never keeps it. Ever. 

Anyway, five-thirty comes and goes and he still isn’t there, so I decided to wait a little longer. I ate my burger slowly so that I could still eat with him when he arrived. But then I checked the time and it was six o'clock. It was six and he still wasn’t there. But, I was used to it. I was used to him taking a long ass time to get home from the bar, so I waited even longer. When it hit six-twenty, I called him. It rang for what felt like fifty years. There was no answer. The motherfucker was late to dinner, and he had the audacity to not answer. That’s what I can’t stand. If you’re gonna be late, call the person you’re expecting to meet and explain yourself. Don’t just leave them sitting at home with no explanation. Don’t ever do that to someone.

I finished my burger by about six-thirty and went to our room—my husband and I's room—to read some of the book I had been reading. I left his bitch-ass burger on the table and everything to let it get nice and cold so that he’d be pissed when he got home. Anyway, I read some of my book, and I was enjoying it so far. I forget the title, but it was about a girl who had to flee her home because of a war with a mysterious enemy. She eventually gets separated from her family, and the more and more she wanders and tries to find them again, the more and more trippy the book becomes. Characters start having magical powers, and fantasy creatures start popping out of nowhere to talk to the girl. It gets crazier and trippier with each page. It started off completely unmagical. It was drab and depressing—like war usually is—but when she loses her family, suddenly there’s a goblin talking to her in the forest and a butcher in a town she stumbles upon who has six arms for slaughtering and chopping animals! It started off completely normal, I swear. It was a really good book, though. I liked it a lot, and it distracted me from my husband missing dinner and everything. 

When I finished the chapter in my book, it was seven-ten. It was seven-ten and he still was not there. Still. I started getting a little worried, naturally. He usually comes home by six-thirty. He’s always late, but he’s never that late. He was really, really late. So, I called him again. This time, he picked up. I was shocked when I heard his voice say “Hello?” I was honestly and completely shocked. I almost hung up—and I was about to—but I accepted the call anyway. I was almost scared, really. 

“Hello?” I said back. 

“Hey, sorry, sorry,” he said. He was drunk. I could tell when he was drunk. His speech always became slow when he was drunk. Mark my words. 

“You’re sorry?” I asked. I tried not to raise my voice over the phone. “Where are you?”

“Sorry, honey, sorry,” he said again. “It was Tucker’s birthday today, and we had a big celebration after work.” 

“You didn’t tell me about that. Why didn’t you tell me? Where are you?” I was getting irritated. When he was drunk, he never answered your question. He just said whatever the fuck he felt like. 

“I told you, babe. I told you this morning.” 

He did not, in fact, tell me that morning. “You didn’t tell me shit,” I said. He really didn’t. 

“Yes, I did, I remember.” He started sounding annoyed. He was annoyed at me. Men have the fucking audacity. They always do. 

“No you didn’t. Whatever, where are-” 

“I’ll be home soon, okay?” he said, cutting me off. That motherfucker is always interrupting me. I was pissed and just about done with his bullshit. 

“Okay,” I said, then I hung up. I was absolutely done by then.

I was fuming, so I walked to the living room and watched a show till eight o’clock. That means I was waiting for fifty more minutes until he finally walked through the door. When he arrived, I was watching an old sitcom from the 90s. Or maybe it was from the 70s. I forget. Anyway, he got there at eight and when he walked up to the living room, I didn’t say a single word to him. Not one. I kept looking at the TV. I wasn’t gonna give him even a glance. He stood there for a few minutes, just kinda looking at me. At least, I assume he was looking at me. Like I said, I didn’t glance at him when he arrived. Anyway, it was a while before he said anything to me. I don’t know if he was just too out of it to say anything or if he didn’t know what to say, but it was a long time before he said anything. 

“Is there still dinner?” he said. 

I finally looked at him when he said that. He looked tired, so fucking tired. I almost felt bad that I didn’t talk to him, but I was still upset and didn’t allow myself to get too sympathetic. But, I didn’t respond to his question with words—I just pointed to the table where his cold burger was sitting, getting even colder. By then, the burger was two and a half hours old. He approached it. I could tell he was getting annoyed. 

“It’s cold.”

“Well, it was hot at five-thirty,” I said. I didn’t hide the snarkiness in my voice. I knew he heard it. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“I’m sure you are.” 

“Well.” He was sweating, and I know he was, too. That man was sweating like a pig. “His party went a little late. It’s no big deal.” 

“You didn’t update me till seven-ten, and I told you to be home.” I was getting really annoyed. That man never listens to you. 

“It’s not my fault. Why do you even want me home? So you can—” 

That made me furious. “Oh, I’m the bitch for wanting my husband home. Fuck me, huh? I’m such a fucking bitch, huh?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

That made me even more angry. “You didn’t even invite me! I could’ve joined you and everything!” My voice was getting higher and higher with each word. You should’ve seen his face, too. That man can’t handle being yelled at. His eyes get all big and he has the stupidest fucking frown you’ve ever seen. I wanted to slap that face so bad. 

“You don’t care much for my friends, and I know it. You wouldn’t have liked it.”

“But you were out so late and didn’t even tell me until seven-ten. You can’t do the simplest things. You have no fucking decency, you know that? None. No decency. No manners.”

“You wouldn’t have liked it,” he said again. “The party went late; don't be so mad. You’re overreacting. Nothing—” 

I was about done by then. Done. “It’s every day!” 

“What—”

“It’s every fucking day, you know that? Every day, you go to the fucking bar and leave me waiting. You spend more time with your stupid alcoholic friends at the bar than you do with me. You’d rather go and drink and not update me till dinner’s already over. You’re never here; you’re never fucking here. I swear, you have a whole nother family down at that bar.” 

“Maybe I go to the bar because I feel more welcomed over there. They’re more family than—” I had had it and slapped him across the face. It stung, but it was worth it to see his cheek get all red. He was standing there with the stupidest fucking look on his face. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have what the bar has. If you want to stay at the bar for the rest of your life, then fine, but leave me alone. Don’t play with me like that.”

He didn’t even say anything after that, except the word “well.” You could tell he was done arguing when he said that. I hate that word. “Well” is such a cowardly word. If you’re gonna say “well” after an argument, then don’t have the argument at all. 

He went and threw the burger away and got something from the fridge instead. I stayed in the living room being all mad and sad. I hate to admit it, but I started to cry. The tears were streaming down my face, so I went to the bathroom to calm down. I must’ve stood in front of the mirror for about ten minutes. I wasn’t even looking into the mirror. I was just crying looking at the counter. I did take a while to come out. 

When I did, I didn’t see him in the kitchen or the living room. I checked our room—still nothing. I went to the kitchen window so I could see if his car was in the driveway; it wasn’t. He had left. I don’t think I even cared that he was gone in the moment. I found out later that he went back to the bar.