I sat there staring at him and his big stupid head, as he slurped down a spoonful of Frosted Mini-Wheats and swallowed them with his stupid mouth. I can’t believe I had stayed married to his stupid face for the past thirteen years. He made this terrible grinding sound whenever he ate cereal. His spoon sort of scraped the roof of his mouth, and then he let his teeth graze the bottom of the spoon as it exited that hole in his face he called a mouth. The sound was enough to cause me to take a knife from the cupboard drawer and shove it through his left eye socket, piercing his stupid looking glasses and impaling his gray matter.
“Honey, can you pass me the milk?”
He muttered to me in-between indiscernible grunts and utterances. I smiled as I passed him the carton. He was turning forty-eight in May. I was going to be thirty-seven next week. It’s hard to believe that I had known this man since I was just barely an adult. He was examining the back of the cereal box and chuckling to himself in-between gulps as he read the cartoon that most fourth graders find immature and stupid. His laugh wasn’t that of a normal man’s laugh; my husband’s laugh was something on par with that of a hyena’s squeal. It truly was a stupid and pathetic laugh. I looked down at my watch and then looked back at him. For the first time all morning, he looked back at me and met my gaze and returned it with one of his own. He grinned widely at me, much in the same adoration and way he smiled at me on our first date.
He had such a stupid smile.
I politely returned the smile, only mine being purely out of pity. Only five more minutes and he would leave for work. Then I wouldn’t have to see him for another eight hours. My mind quickly began to race as I realized what day it was. It was Friday. That meant he would expect the two of us to go out tonight. I immediately began to think of excuses to use later in order to get out of having to endure a night of torture and pain with him. Perhaps I would tell him I was too tired, or perhaps I had suddenly gotten very ill while he was away at work. Yes. That could work. He would likely be stupid enough to believe that. In order to make it even more believable, I would begin developing my plan this very second. I opened my mouth to speak; to make a comment about how I currently wasn’t feeling well, but before I could say anything, he opened his big stupid mouth and stupid words began to flow freely from it.
“You know, it’s been awhile since we have gone to a nice place to eat. I was thinking that tonight after work, maybe you and I could go out to that Italian place that you like so much.”
The idea of enduring an hour-long dinner conversation with him was enough to make me want to kill myself. Once again I smiled faintly at him, and was about to reply when I then realized that he wasn’t done speaking.
“… Then afterwards maybe we can come back here, light some candles maybe have some wine… you know, just have a nice romantic night together.”
I had to nearly physically restrain myself from vomiting all over the kitchen table. Suddenly it all made so much sense. With him, it was never about a nice gesture, or doing something spontaneous because he cared, but rather it was always about sex. Everything was about sex with him. And the funny thing is, he was stupid enough to think he was going to get it later on tonight. As if buying me a nice dinner was enough to get me to put out. It’s as if he thought of me as some whore where all he has to do is wave some money around and I will come running. Little did he know that sex was the problem behind everything. If it wasn’t for his stupid problem we wouldn’t be in the situation we are now. I wouldn’t be sitting in this kitchen chair, alone with him, feeling useless as a woman, and even more useless as a person. Every time I look at his face I am reminded of the life we never had together, and I am just now realizing that the chance of life I could have once had is now gone forever. The doctor’s said his problem would just “fix” itself, but what do they know. They’re just as stupid as he is.
“Looks like I’m going to be late. Guess I’d better get going.”
He stood up from the table and placed his bowl and spoon in the sink. As usual, he forgot to wash it and instead left it for me to take care of later. As he began to walk towards the front door, he stopped for a moment and backtracked towards me. He then did something that caught me off guard. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, while whispering something directly into my ear.
“You’re the best. I love you.”
He then quickly turned around on his heel and proceeded to walk out the front door. The door slammed hard behind him, and I subsequently bolted and latched the door’s top lock. That very instant as I locked the front door, I had an epiphany. My husband loves me. My husband is still in love with me. In fact, he is so much in love with me that it can almost be called “stupid.”
My husband is a stupid, stupid man. And I am a stupid woman for allowing him to think that I love him back.
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