Domestic Cowardess

She could feel the fight brewing. It had begun when she walked through the door, tired and sticky from all day on her feet. She didn’t  feel like eating, didn’t feel like cooking, but even as she thought it she felt the phone buzzing in her handbag. The customary call. 

“I’m on my way home, what’s for dinner?”

She muttered back the meal plan that she’d coordinated, knowing if she spoke her mind, admitted she didn’t feel like cooking and eating, he’d suggest they go out, because he couldn’t be assed himself, but had to eat. She couldn’t stand the wasted groceries or extra cash for laziness’ sake. A deep sigh as her honest self slunk into a corner, she searched the fridge for each item, opened the recipe book and began preparing. She flicked the TV on to blare in the background as each element was sautéed in turn. An eye on the clock ensured impeccable timing, and he walked in the door with enough time to pet the cat, proffer a brief tirade about something just heard on talk-back radio, and sit down ready to eat. 

“It needs more salt” 

She could sense the storm coming. Felt sick as she looked at the food in front of her, thinking of the time that could have been spent on something that didn’t leave her feeling soulless. Another example of something she’d done for him that, in the end proved and meant nothing as he scraped his plate, eyes on his phone, no questions asked, no anecdotes offered. She took their plates to the sink. 

“I’ll do the dishes in the morning.”

She didn’t want them done in the morning, recalled the squalor of blearily scooping yoghurt onto meusli, meat crusted ceramic half-soaking in the sink. It wouldn’t take long and it would make the next morning a little smoother. She turned the tap on.

“No! Don’t you do them, I said I’d do them. I just want to relax for a bit, I’ve been on my feet all day.”

She could feel the flicker and spark against the fuse, explosion imminent. Exhaled deeply and acquiesced to walk away from the pair of plates, handful of utensils and single fry pan that wouldn’t take long to take care of. She left little pieces of herself stagnating in the sink and seeking the solitude of her study, sat down and set out paper and envelopes. She began to draft a cheerful note to a far off friend, recounting something special they’d shared an age ago. 

“Aren’t you going to spend some time with me?”

She stared at the paper in front of her, felt him reading over her shoulder, the oppression of the pressure to play sweet and nice. No one had ever known her as sweet or nice, but to avoid the anger and the arguing and the accusations, she would walk away from what she wanted to do, and watch the night die as they stared together into a screen, not speaking, but him satisfied to have his arms around her empty shell. 

She was scared of his shouting, afraid that it meant she was faulty,  worried that if she wasn’t keeping him happy it meant she was selfish and rotten and would ruin everything. The aching was a part of her every day, her eyes were dull and heart cold. She couldn’t breathe anymore. Lifeless because she’d learned to let him win, and become a coward who’d rather lose her spirit than throw herself into the fire.