A Taste of Discontent

Emma stabbed at her goopy mashed potatoes, eyeing the pot roast with disdain. Typical. Chris was so stuck in his ways. And here he goes again, launching into yet another story about that work friend.

"Emma, are you even listening?" Chris's accusation cut as sharp as the knife beside her plate.

She couldn't help but think about Jules. Jules's teeth were the most beautiful she'd ever seen—alabaster white and shaped like pearls on a necklace. And Jules's face—perfectly-plumped lips and skin so smooth it looked photoshopped. Botox is not cheap. Emma wondered how much it might cost to have teeth like that, to have skin that glowed even under the harsh fluorescent lights of their dated kitchen.

"You are unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. You aren't even listening," Chris said.

Emma didn't respond. The fact was—he was right. She wasn't listening. She hadn't really listened to him in years. She sipped her pinot grigio through her straw, better to prevent wrinkles, and noted the strange, bitter aftertaste that lingered on her tongue.

Dimples. That's what put Jules's looks over the top. And hair that shimmered like gold. She was earthy but not crunchy-granola earthy. The rich kind of earthy that Emma bet costs tens of thousands of dollars a year to maintain. How much of their budget would that eat up? More than they could afford, surely.

"I'm sorry, babe. I am listening. I'm just... tired," Emma said, the lie tasting as bland as the food before her. This should appease him. She took a bite of the lumpy, lukewarm, and flavorless potatoes. There was an odd chemical tang to them tonight.

Jules's fiancé. What was his name again? Jayden. Jules and Jayden. J&J. Very monogrammable. And they were both so impossibly beautiful. And the way they spoke to each other during their vows. So charming. We've never been that charming, Emma thought, a pang of something—envy? regret?—in her gut.

"Beyond the fact that you're not listening, it's insane that you can go to a wedding and be so unbearably miserable. Moping around the dance floor all night. Pretending to be interested in conversation. You can't stand to see other people happy, can you, Emma?" Chris said, his eyes glinting with an emotion Emma couldn't quite place. Was it anger? Disappointment? Or something darker?

Emma looked around their windowless kitchen, with its peeling linoleum floor and its appliances from before stainless steel was a thing. It was all so shamefully ugly. Am I drunk? Emma wondered, taking another sip of wine. Her head felt fuzzy, her vision slightly blurred. The room seemed to tilt and sway, like she was on one of those crumbling rides at a carnival.

What didn't Chris get? Didn't he see that Jules and Jayden were enviable while their lives were a pathetic mess? Jules and Jayden's wedding felt glittery—like the outfits at a Taylor Swift concert. The entire wedding dripping with elegance, as if Jane Austen had traded her empire waist gowns for Gen Z minimalism. Emma could still picture their guests. The kind of sophisticated people who travel in from New York, LA, and Paris. And their food, a careful nod to Jayden's Jamaican ancestry. Creamy potato gratin with a subtle Caribbean twist. Meanwhile, Emma and Chris's reception was dinner at a local hibachi chain restaurant chosen for its affordable pricing. The memory of their performative chef making onions into a smoking volcano gave her second-hand embarrassment.

"Do you know how much money he's probably making as a corporate lawyer? The kind of money where they can probably go to restaurants every night of the week and eat tiny food plated with those teeeeeny, tiny tweezers. When was the last time you and I ate somewhere that wasn't a Panera or a Chipotle?" she asked. "And did you see that diamond tennis bracelet she was wearing? It looked like it was at least four carats. I would love to own something like that. The closest I'll get to it is a knock-off from Amazon."

Emma scooped more slimy potatoes into her mouth. Maybe she'd finally provoked him into an honest discussion instead of their typical mealtime chatter that stays above the surface. She stabbed at the pot roast—the rubbery meat looked like something she'd find in one of those cheap frozen entrees at the grocery store. The good thing about terrible food is that it helped her maintain her weight because she could barely stand to eat it.

"You are such a narcissist," Chris said. "And to think at first, I was charmed by you. It's like you can't get out of your own way. Nothing is ever good enough."

Chris's words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Has our relationship always been like this? Emma wondered. It felt exhausting, like trudging through wet concrete. She remembered feeling so much promise for her life as a girl. She was pretty then, her blue-green eyes unhidden by the dark rings that now framed them, obscuring their luster. And she had also been vivacious, catching glances stolen in her direction from men who looked at her admiringly. But instead of pursuing her ambition to be an actress, like her high school teacher encouraged her, she listened to her parents and went into teaching instead. And instead of embracing life as a single woman, she married "nice guy" Chris straight out of graduate school. He was good enough. At least back then, anyway. Like her, he had been on the teaching track. Like her, he liked to laugh. They hadn't laughed together in a long time, she realized. Too long a time.

Emma remembered how attentive Chris once was, always surprising her with little gifts – freshly cut wildflowers. Or a large fountain soda with extra ice from McDonald's. When did that change? She glanced at him now, noticing how the lines around his mouth had deepened, not from laughter as they once had, but from something harder, colder. She recalled a conversation from years ago, Chris excitedly describing his dream of becoming a botanist. "Can you imagine, Emma? Discovering a new species, having it named after you?" His eyes alight with ambition. Then, he was thwarted in that dream by his parents' successive illnesses and a responsibility to be their caretaker. As she looked at him methodically chewing his food, she wondered if he still thought about that lost future, that road not taken.

"Why do we even bother, Emma? It's like you want a divorce. But you don't even have the courage to ask for one. It's sad, really. And here is the thing: I'm not going to do it for you. Because you don't deserve that," Chris said before draining the last sip of his Heineken. "You'll never be happy."

"Well, at least I have standards. At least I try to be better. You've let yourself go," Emma retorted, her words slurring slightly. The room spun faster now, the walls seeming to breathe in and out with each passing second. "When was the last time you went to the gym? Or took on a side hustle for extra money? Or done anything besides play with your plants...?" She took another spoonful of mashed potatoes and let it sit in her mouth, its gooeyness lining her teeth.

But Chris's admission stung Emma. He was not wrong, she thought. Maybe her inability to enjoy what they had—what she had—was the real problem. Even with the growing wrinkles etched across his face like the powerlines on a city block and his slight paunch, he still had a hint of handsomeness. Maybe she was too hard on him. No, he wasn't an earner like Jayden, but he was smart. And she loved how he embraced his hobbies. The way he got excited about talking about his plants and his trees was sweet. She loved the neighborhood walks they'd take during those first few years of their marriage, when he'd point out the differences between the Dogwoods, the Oaks, and the Maples. Maybe she did push him too far. Maybe she should try harder to be better. She hated that part of herself that considered him less than her.

"You're not wrong, Chris. I am...." Her heart felt like it was accelerating now, fluttering like a bird caught in a net. What was happening to her body, she wondered. The room suddenly felt cramped, like the city on a muggy summer evening when the air conditioning breaks down and there's nowhere to escape the heat.

"What, babe? What's going on?" he asked. Is that concern in his voice or is he mocking me, she wondered.

Chris had gotten mean lately, she thought. Not returning her calls. Texting her angry retorts to her questions. Calling her names she could never have imagined. And that time recently when he didn't even bother to show up to the weekly family dinner with her parents. Emma's eyes drifted to Chris's laptop on the side table. Earlier, she'd noticed him quickly closing it as she entered the room. What was he hiding? Work emails? Or something else entirely?

"I am so much more than you think I am," he said, his voice unsettlingly calm. "Did you ever wonder what keeps me out of the house so often after work? Of course, you haven't. But had you wondered—you'd find out I've been busy on a little side project."

Chris's dark eyes looked almost black, and the muscles in his jaw worked overtime as he slowly chewed through his meal. He paused, then added with an odd smile, "You know, it's fascinating how some of the most beautiful plants can be the deadliest. Take the oleander in our backyard—gorgeous flowers, but every part of it is toxic."

As he spoke, Chris's eyes lit up with an intensity Emma hadn't seen in years. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Did you know that some plants can alter the very chemistry of the soil around them? They can nurture or poison at will." He said, the sound sending an inexplicable chill through Emma. "It's all about survival, in the end."

The sudden shift in topic made Emma's head spin even more. He's so bitter, she thought. If he would just actually own his ineptitude and do something about it. What more could she say? And why did her chest feel like a squeezed lemon?

"Chris," she mumbled, her tongue feeling thick, like when she's had too much novocaine at the dentist. "I don't feel so good."

Maybe if I rest my eyes, I'll feel OK, Emma thought, the room spinning violently now as the weight of her dissatisfaction settled over her like a heavy blanket. Her limbs felt leaden, and her breathing labored. The chemical taste in her mouth grew stronger with each passing moment. She laid her head on the table, her long black hair spreading like spilled spaghetti.

Jules and her perfect life. The one who had done everything right. Division I athlete. On her way to a lucrative career in anesthesiology. She and Jayden would soon have beautiful, athletic children, who would go on to have equally beautiful, athletic children. And on and on the cycle would go. While Emma... Emma would be stuck here in this tiny condo with its yellowing walls and the constant smell of the Indian restaurant next door.

She looked at her husband, who was up from his chair and coming towards her now. His expression was unreadable, a mask of indifference. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, stretching across his face in strange patterns.

"You never feel good, Emma," Chris said, oddly calm.

Emma tried to respond, but her lips wouldn't cooperate. The room tilted sideways as she slumped in her chair, her body feeling impossibly heavy. The walls seemed to pulse, in and out, like the breathing of some great beast.

She tried to focus on Chris and ask for help, but his face seemed to blur and shift. For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of the old Chris—kind eyes and a gentle smile—but it was gone in an instant, replaced by an expression of cool detachment.

The last thing she heard was Chris's voice as he stood over her. "I'll clean up," he said, his voice trailing off as if it were coming from the end of a long tunnel. "You just rest. It'll all be over soon." The gentleness in his tone was at odds with his words, reminding her of how he used to comfort her after a difficult day at work.

And then, mercifully, silence.

Chris looked down at his wife's still form, then at the empty plates on the table. He picked up the dishes and walked to the kitchen, his movements unhurried. As he began to wash up, he hummed quietly to himself, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The tune was familiar—the wedding march, perhaps?

Then, one by one, he watered his various house plants. They looked so healthy lately, he thought. They were really turning around. Chris gently fingered his prized fiddle leaf fig. "You just needed the right amount of light," he whispered, too softly to hear. "It's amazing how quickly things can turn around with the proper care."

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the kitchen table. Emma sat motionless, her half-empty wine glass catching the last rays of light. In the growing darkness, the room held its breath, waiting for a dawn that, for Emma, would never come.

The neighbors would later remark that they heard nothing unusual that night. Just the usual sounds of a married couple having dinner. The clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and then, as always, silence.

Perfect, unbroken silence.