ALL THE THINGS YOU DON'T SAY

Did I want pepperoni or supreme? Or there’s always chicken bacon ranch. I always like that one, but I had it last time. And last time I said I would try something new, something different. Or at least just in a different rotation amongst the ones I know I like.

“$2 bucks a slice or $11.50 a pie” read the sign hanging above the register.

Was this menu sign always so worn down and pale? The checkered floor so scuffed and stained? The fluorescent lights so bright? This place used to feel so familiar.

Taking a deep inhale, the aromas of the battered pizza parlor flood my senses. My legs sway ever so slightly with the rush of sickness that overcomes me.

—Okay, refocus. Chicken bacon ranch or pepperoni?

The pit in my stomach sways with nausea again—God dammit just pick something!

My nerves jump at David clearing his throat beside me.

Right.

“Have you decided yet?”

“Ummm—” ok ok ok choose something, anything, just choose something quick. Fuck! What do I want?!

Clearing my throat, “um yeah, I would like…uh..” shit, pepperoni is a classic and safe choice, supreme has the illusion of health with vegetables but then again, chicken bacon ranch…

No no no! Literally none of it sounds even remotely appetizing right now. Maybe I just don’t want pizza?

He’s gonna be so mad if I change my mind now, but dammit I think that’s it, I don’t want pizza.

My eyes look to him, “Babe I’m sorry, I don’t think I want pizza tonight.”

“No come on, we’re already here. Just pick something.”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I can’t pick, nothing sounds right.”

He lets out a sigh and looks at me.

“Ok.”

The pit of my stomach sinks further, his annoyance is leaden in the air.

“I need to pee,” I lie and start to make my way to the restroom down the hall.

The cold AC air no longer soothing on my bare legs as my body begins to shake. An unavoidable wave of nausea rushes through me for the third time and I barge into the closest stall, sinking to my knees, I immediately throw up.

The strands of hair scratching across my face stick to beads of sweat. I clench my eyes shut. Shit shit shit. Another wave of sickness washes over me, and my body moves me back to the bowl.

—Yeah I definitely don’t want pizza. I don’t want anything.

But I need something. I really do.

Shakily standing, I exit the stall and an elderly woman’s sympathetic eyes meet mine as I walk over to the sink and wash my hands, the floral scent of the soap way too strong.

The reflection staring back at me is pale and tired. A deep breath heaves from my chest. What a disaster.

As I walk back down the hallway on shaky legs, I see David by the door holding a box ready to go. He sees me, turns and walks out the door saying nothing.

He’s always saying nothing.

The brightness of the outdoors hurts, and the hot air only worsens my feverish chills.

I open the passenger side door of David’s truck and climb into the lifted seat.

Down the highway, half way home, the aroma of pizza has filled the cabin air and I can’t stand it. I suddenly hate it. It's making the air thick and scented and the AC is too cold, and the setting sun is too bright and the seat belt is crushing me, its pressure on my chest becoming heavier and heavier. Even heavier than the weight of the unspoken words radiating off of David.

I still don’t know what I want for dinner now that pizza is out of the question and he hasn’t asked or suggested anything. In fact I don’t think he will. I don’t think he cares. God no, I know, I know, he doesn’t care.

It's as if he has a limit of annoyances he can endure and I’m quickly running out of the tolerance he has set aside for me. It's like he keeps a tally. A tally of every minor inconvenience or annoyance I impose into his life. His love is transactional and I’m falling short.

I should be able to make up my mind though, right? It's food, it’s dinner. It's a daily part of life right? It should be easy.

But it's not.

Because it's not just food. I don’t think he gets that.

It's not just about eating, it's about the how, the what, the when, and the why we’re eating. There’s miles of context and he isn’t interested.

There are so many variables at play in this ever changing equation. 

An equation I didn’t ask to solve.

A fate I had no say in.

What he doesn’t get is that this is what it is to be a woman. This is womanhood.

He doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t care.

And he punishes me for it.

The pizza box slides in the middle seat, my hand launching to hold it in place, he breaks hard and curses at the car in front of us.

I turn my body toward the passenger window where I see a minivan full of kids laughing and interacting with each other. I watch as their presumed father’s face lights up as he cranks up the stereo, the group of kids replicating his enthusiasm for the song.

Tears well up in my eyes and I curl further into the door of the truck, away from David and the mess of us, and toward the happy moment occurring next to us. A moment I don't think David could ever provide.

The light turns green and David puts his foot on the gas launching us forward, the seat belt activating against my frame.

Not a single word is uttered between us on the rest of the journey home. The apartment feels cold and dark as we enter. David’s keys hit the kitchen counter and he sets the pizza box down. Wordlessly he crosses to the fridge and pulls out a beer. I just stand there looking at him. His eyes swing in my direction as he takes a sip with a numbing stare. No warmth, no caring attributes of any kind, no love.

He could offer anything, literally anything, to show he cares.

Anything to show that he cares when I’m struggling, even if it's something as simple as food. Anything to show that he’s willing to try and understand, to help me through this. Anything to show he loves me still, even just a little bit.

He still hasn’t said anything or touched the pizza, it lies before us like an unspoken bridge over a vast well of nothingness.

“David—”

He looks at me, his arms braced on the counter's edge. Why can’t he speak to me? Why can’t he ask me questions? Does he not see me screaming from the inside? 

“David. What are we doing?”

He looks puzzled at me. “What do you mean?” I just look at him. He offers no engagement already and I know this battle is already lost before it begins.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

This got his attention. A dismissive annoyance cascades over him.

“Yeah, okay.”

“David, I can’t keep doing this. We don’t talk, we don’t communicate. You don’t listen to me.” He doesn’t know how to listen to my silence. The words I feel but can’t express.

“You always say the same shit every time we fight. I don’t know what you want from me. It's not like you say much either.”

I mean, he’s got a point there. But I used to say a lot. I guess somewhere along the way I just…stopped. But he also used to ask more.

God what was I still doing here.

Going in circles, in an endless loop of indecision and insipid deliberation. We clearly haven’t been working for a long time. Who was I kidding, I don’t think we ever worked to begin with.

I deserve to be asked questions, and have my own questions met with sincerity and kindness. I shouldn’t have to earn forgiveness when I can’t make up my mind. I’m tired of screaming and going unheard. I deserve to be heard despite my silence.

Sometimes it's all I can offer. 

David just looks at me with such entitled annoyance. He scoffs and opens the pizza box, a white golden circle of plain cheese.

He knows, he knows! I hate cheese pizza. It's a total waste of ingredients and carbs. He picks up a slice and takes a bite.

That’s it. That’s it! I’m done, I’m done, I’m so done!

I decidedly make for his bedroom where I grab the various odds and ends that belong to me. The spare drawer he so kindly cleared for me was now empty and left open for him to close.

He hasn’t followed me, not that I’m trying to make him. It's simply an observation of how little he cares. I snatch my toiletries from his bathroom including the pink little box in the trash from earlier. The box now containing the two little blue lines that had shown up again today.

I’d taken a test once a week for 5 weeks, every week leaving it next to the box on top of the trash for him to ask about. Every week those two little lines appeared and every week he didn’t say anything.

As I walk back out to the kitchen to the front door, he looks up and takes in the sight of me with my things. Two slices of that damn pizza are now gone and a second beer sits open beside the box.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“David, this isn’t working. It hasn’t been working and I can’t keep living like this. We don’t communicate. We can’t hear each other. You don’t even seem remotely interested in any kind of problem solving. I—I gotta go. This is it. I’m sorry, I’m leaving.”

He just stood there, utter confusion clouding his eyes. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” without even a pause to hear me out, “you’re being crazy—”

“I am not being crazy.” I stop and turn half way out the door. “What’s crazy is that of all the fucking pizzas you could have picked, you picked plain cheese. Who in their right mind wants such a plain pizza? And you know I hate it. You know I hate cheese pizza. It's one of my things. It's a rant I know you’ve heard. Me wanting respect, comprehension and retention in conversations is not crazy. It's called human decency. You might know any one of these things if you ever actually listened to me.”

He starts mouthing off shitty excuse after shitty excuse, me being at fault each time but I just keep walking away.

 God, suddenly I could breathe again. The chills and nausea from earlier temporarily at bay. I’m free!

…

A couple weeks have gone by and I've settled into my apartment. My friends are over the moon about the little blue lines and they’ve all been taking such good care of me. 

Curled up in my grandmother's sweater and my mother’s socks, I look out the window and daydream about my child. The leaves turn over in the wind drifting throughout the autumn painted city. 

“I can’t wait for you to see the world like this. It's my favorite time of year.” Old sensations of the cozy energetic excitement that comes with fall floods over me.

And another feeling I hadn’t felt in some time. Hunger. And dammit I knew just what I wanted.

A cheese pizza.

Laughing, holding the base of my belly, my heart glows. This child already had such an ironic sense of humor. 

“I can’t wait to hear all the things you have to say, little one.”

A frenzy of leaves bustles against the window glass and I pull my sweater tighter.

“Even all the things you don’t say.”