Inside

I watch as my husband’s hand hovers over the last of the paperwork for the divorce. The shape of his lips pressed firmly into a thin line as his eyes scan the page again and again. In his mind, I can imagine gears turning, like he's waiting to throw one last reason for this to not happen at me. But he doesn’t and with a sigh, he picks up the pen beside him and signs on the dotted line. He looks at it for a moment, his eyes wide like he's surprised to see his name there before he places the pen down and leans back on the couch beside me. 

 His dark hair is messy and I can tell he put off shaving this morning. Probably thinking to himself that he could wait and do it tomorrow after staying up late working yesterday. Then this morning after his shower he must’ve been running late, letting the cycle continue tonight. A bad habit of his. Whenever it would get really bad, I used to help, offering to shave it for him. We somehow could always seem to make something so mundane fun. I would jokingly dot shaving cream on his nose, he would try to steal kisses from me with his face lathered up, making me laugh.  

He takes the glasses off his nose and rests his head on the back of the couch. “There.” His voice sounds so much older than twenty-seven now I notice. “It’s done, are you happy now?” I watch his face, knowing every feature of him, the curve of his nose, the freckle right under his right ear, the way his mouth would twitch up when he was trying not to grimace. Ten years of being together, three years of marriage gone just like that. “No.” I say “Of course I’m not.”

His eyes relax and for a split second, I can almost picture him sleeping. He always looks so peaceful when he asleep. Not like during the day when he's all action and reaction, emotions from under the surface come up so easily with him. During our marriage, I could always tell what he was thinking with just a look. Although I know he would try to keep it hidden. But in the moments when his features would calm when the sea inside him would subside...or when he would laugh like a little kid with his face all lit up, in a way you knew was genuine, or when he would get teary-eyed and would try to blink it back, on like after his father died when he was sobbing into my shoulder. When he would strip himself of any shield or guard he held in front of me. Those were the moments when I loved him the most.  

It's frustrating seeing it now. It feels like grief almost. Loving someone and not knowing what to do with it because you can’t give it to them. I can’t ruffle his hair or trace his features with my fingertips, I can’t kiss him when I think he’s beautiful or love him even when he’s not.

For the first time during what felt like his whole visit here to my house, he turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are misty, his nose starting to grow red. “I can’t ever see what you're thinking Mari” he whispers. “It drives me crazy. So, I need you to tell me-- in words, that you’re really okay with this. That you’ll be alright.” He reaches out to put his hand on my cheek, stopping right before. Habit makes me want to lean into him. To kiss his palm to curl into him and cry with him. But he puts his hand down and looks away from me again.  

His eyes scan my living room and linger on the empty wine bottle that had rolled under the coffee table from last night when suddenly overcome by sobs I fell asleep on the couch, bottle in hand. He never liked it when I drank, he said all it did was seem to make me sad so I tried not to. But on the nights I did or would stumble in from a girl's night, having a bit too much, I always woke up in bed. Water and aspirin on the nightstand, pajamas on. It was jarring this morning waking up on the couch, still in my work clothes. My face had broken out from sleeping in my make-up and it dawned on me that all those times Colin must’ve helped me wash my face before bed as well.  

“I’ll be fine,” I say. The words even feel cold to me as they leave my mouth and I can see him break just a little more. That face always kills me. Throughout this entire process, it felt like I had just stabbed myself in the gut over and over again whenever I looked at him. Only worse to that was a few months ago, when my sister slowly handed him the divorce papers, nearly crying herself as she did. The shock on his face at it all stung like an open wound. He knew it was coming. We both did, we talked about it and agreed it would be best. But his face killed me that night outside what used to be our house. My sister couldn’t stay, I think she felt bad about getting involved and I knew I felt the same but that night I remembered he didn’t cry. Although, I could tell he wanted to. But we fought. Each word of his cut like a knife. The thing about Colin is that he loves me a lot. I know he only agreed to this divorce and the separation prior because he knew it was what I needed to be happy. Or he knew it was what I thought I needed to be happy.

But that night his words matched the fury and frustration on his face and the impact of both broke me. I screamed I cried, I slammed a glass down on the table so hard it shattered, shocking us both so much we stopped yelling. 

I remember the silence that hung in the air before I looked down seeing I had cut myself. He was breathing heavily, still a twinge of anger on his face but he came up to me. “Let me see, you need to clean that,” I yanked my hand back before he could touch me, clutching it to my chest, before marching out the front door. He called my name once, I heard the front door open just as I got in my car, not looking up as I sped away.  

It had gotten infected. That night I hadn't cared about my hand, I could barely feel the pain so I rinsed it with water, checked there wasn’t any glass stuck to me before downing some wine and going to bed. By the next morning, I had to go to a clinic to get stitches.  

Now staring down at the fading scar on my palm I remember why this was all happening in the first place and turn away from him in silence. He gives me a minute like he always does before sighing and standing up. “I’m going home.” He mutters “I can’t read your mind, Mari, I just wish you could understand that.” I did. I get up to walk him to the door the air feeling so quiet a whisper would sound like a shout.  

At the door, I wait for him to open it and step out into the cold November air. But instead, he turns to me. “If you ever need anything...” but his face falters and he looks down before putting a hand on the doorknob. “Yeah,” I say, to fill the air. “Just take care of yourself alright?” He shakes his head before turning the knob and stepping out the door.  

“I’m sorry we couldn’t-” the words slip out of me, so suddenly I almost glance behind me to see who said them. Colin immediately faces me, his face full of hope for a moment. But when I refuse to get the rest of the words out, hope turns back to frustration and I watch as he goes down the steps of my house and out to his car. The headlights come on. I watch as he glances back at me before pulling out of the driveway and disappears down the street. Only then do I let the tears trapped behind my throat come to the surface, shutting the door behind me as I make my way back inside.