A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARITAL RESIGNATION

     The light from the window shines in a dull red glow behind her closed eyelids. Only a brief moment before the alarm clock begins to blare out from the corner of the room. A quick inventory of her position tells her that, although her husband was in bed last night, they have never even touched each other during the night. The blankets that used to wrap around them both in the past, now shoved at one edge to make a small wall between them. No need,though. The wall between them already much larger than could be explained away by the ad hoc bundling board made in the darkness. She opens her eyes and realizes that she has awoken again,alone, without so much as a small kiss to rouse her. Her hair, down over her neck, assuring her that the attempt wasn't even made before he left the bed.

     She sits up in bed and swings her feet over the side of the bed. A quick stop to the bathroom to pee and glances over to the mirror before she washes her hands and face. "My God" she manages to mumble as she looks at the woman staring back who can't seem to pull a smile onto her face to become pretty. "Where did it all go?".
      The brush battles its way through her hair, realizing that it was not made this way from passionate love in the middle of the night, and is, instead, merely the result of another fitful night longing for it, instead. She brushes her teeth and wipes her mouth with the small hand towel and stares back at herself. Her smile stretches briefly across her face just long enough to remind her that she is, indeed, a very beautiful woman, and that true happiness lends its way to her beauty far more than she can muster at the moment. She thinks to herself that being beautiful is only half of a face if she is made to feel less than pretty by how you feel. No worries, A fake smile goes a long way toward beauty when it's presented to people who don't care to differentiate between a real one....and a fake one.

     Out into the kitchen to start coffee for him and breakfast for kids. The morning becomes a flurry of activity as one, then another, presents the problems that require immediate solutions. He wanders in and mumbles "hi". Just "hi". Said like a man on a bus or a passing pedestrian and not the man who she has been with for fifteen years. When did this happen? Did it happen years before she even noticed it? When did the man who used to wrap his arms around her and nuzzle her neck while making her a cup of tea, turn into the man who's only concern was whether she remembered that he needed her to go to the bank? When did this turn into her giving him the emotional reward and the promise of her sexuality, first, with less than a 50-50 chance it would be returned? That the woman who had 'nothing better to do' would have ample time to do what he said. That is, of course, after she completed the other mundane tasks that will be accomplished without his knowing. The dentist appointment, the shopping, the soccer practice,the laundry, the... . Where did this apathy come from?
Coffee in his cup, he wanders back out to finish getting ready for his day with the full extent of his wants accomplished. Other than that there is nothing.   She pours her tea into a cup and longs to be asked something that has nothing to do with the daily goings on of a household and is asked simply because he wanted to hear her voice. Instead, she is left feeling as though her desire to be reliable will be obscured again and again by the feelings associated with unappreciated indifference.

     The kids run off to the bus as she sits in the chair at the kitchen table and stares out the window at the snow on the ground in the yard. A slight twinge of anger and resentment creeping in under the fingers that grip her cup; the only warmth in the house. All in all, not a bad start to the day. The realization that she slept alone, wasn't wanted deep in the night, woke up on her own to an empty bed, looks older and sadder unless she fixed it herself, and that a trip to the bank will make it all better, is more than enough to set her on her way. Thank God for consistency.

     She has lost herself in the numbing regularity of this feeling. How many times has this series of events played itself out? A dozen? A hundred? Ten hundred? She doesn't even remember. Each day blending into another like a cavalcade of mediocrity. A slow dulling of senses once remembered as vital now nothing more than distant echoes. Her expected reliability to conform to his needs soured by his lack of appreciation for the effort becoming an all too common theme. And instead of the feelings that reinforce the bonds of a relationship, the exact opposites of regret and shame and frustration being the things that bind her to him. Now, more out of stubbornness to not be seen as a failure than out of desire, it is replaced by compliance in perpetuity with the rewards falling more to him than her.

     A shadow passes over her shoulder. His hand rests on her shoulder and for a brief instant, washes away all of the bad feelings with the sudden realization that she is going to be comforted regardless of her premature thoughts of self worth. Her fingers slips from inside the handle on the cup and reach up to put her hand over his. But before she can get halfway across her chest, her forearm gently brushing her right breast, his hand reaches across the table in front of her and scoops up the car keys on the table. Before her fingers can slip over his hand, it is gone again. Support. Nothing but support. With no more comfort given to a handrail or a crutch The door closes and the crunch of the gravel under the wheels of his car fades away down the street to be replaced by the sound of the coffee pot ticking slowly in the corner. The church bell up the road peals once and her mind skitters to a John Donne poem. "It tolls for thee" she mumbles darkly to herself.
Alone for a few minutes, she slips into a deep brooding within herself. She feels it with an intensity no one can understand. And she won't let them. Better to closet it away than have it look like it is anything but perfect. And maybe that's where it all went wrong. When the necessity to wax it over became more important than solving the problem. And who's problem was it? Was it hers for trying to hide it, or his because he knew she couldn't stand to look like less in the eyes of others even if it meant she would feel less happy as a result? One sin feeds the other, but both leaving her starving within.

     She stares out over the table. Everything in the house made to look warm and comforting; the picture of domestic bliss. The knickknacks on the walls espousing the wealth that family gives, and every color blending softly into another on the walls. Postcard perfect, form and flow, to a home that slowly developed tendrils like a cancer and turned into into nothing but a house. Four walls containing all the components of a seemingly happy life and none of them with any substance. Only form. A display case in a museum. A diorama of unfulfilled wishes and dreams.

     The brooding slowly makes room for guilt that always accompanies this feeling. There really is no need to allow this feeling to crawl and wend it's way into her day, she thinks to herself. Everything that she needs is here and is in abundance, so ruminating over the petty emotional wants of a woman are paltry at best. The alternative is far too uncertain to risk what is here, and, if anything, she can at least comfort herself with the knowing that the status quo can at least be endured. She has, after all, done it for years, and as long as she can continue to cram the skeletons and the regrets into cupboards within her mind, she can console herself that she is at least...comfortable. But as she stands to go to shower she thinks of the smooth muscles of her body and the press of her breasts against her robe, and knows that within her beats the heart of a woman who yearns for love in a way that reminds her that her body aches to be touched. That the skeletons within the cupboards of her mind are woefully short of space, and that her breasts wish for the hand of a man against them as much as against her heart. Potential beauty, a longing heart, and a body wishing to be filled to a bursting beyond comprehension. And it's going nowhere but to the bank.

     Is all of this worth it? The question rolls through her head more often than she thinks and anything that can drum out the repetitive tattoo within her is sought as a substitute. Keep busy and stay within the lines. Like the rules for coloring as a child will somehow apply on greater and greater canvases within her life. Within herself she knows she is worthy and knows that people who endure are admired in the eyes of others. But martyrs with no voice, or unrecognized by others, are no different than victims nailed to trees.

She slides her clothes on and finishes making herself the picture of capability. She is strong and no one else will know otherwise, but as she applies her eye shadow, she recognizes that her eyes are the window to her soul and that she has, once again, pulled Venetian blinds to eyes that feel a bit safer with the lashes folded inward.
     As she drives down the road the phone rings and she mechanically flips it open while steeling herself for the conversation. No excitement in her voice or happiness and elation at its origin. It is its automaticity that somehow lends the excuse for its continued performance.

     There is no "Hi, Babe" or "How are you?" Just the simple continued lackluster diatribe of continued tasks requiring completion. She talks clinically and as she hangs up feels absolutely no tickle in her heart as she tosses it back in her purse. The entire conversation lending nothing to her heart. And sadly, never even notices the loss of it anymore. Just process. A recurrent thought, however, creeps into her mind;  He isn't asking where she is or what she is doing is for love of her. More to find out where she is NOT.

     The day progresses as they always do. One event sliding into another with each moment monopolized for the desires of something or someone else. As though there is no notice of the fact that time counts, and keeps counting. Yesterday, today, tomorrow....all rolling into one long event.

Children home and dinner started, he pops into the house as though coming home is of no consequence. No shift in the warmth within the house, no increase in conversation. Just a simple appearance as eventful as his exodus this morning. Like David Copperfield had left a sheet in the doorway this morning and forgot to complete the stunt until dinner. No magic in it at all. The evening is a repeat performance of the morning with the demands replaced with the questions regarding their completion. Needs met, he drifts off to an evening spent with just as much need of her involvement as she had during the day. Two ships that pass in the night they are not. Ships that pass at least have a vested interest in the ports between them. These ships simply bumble to and fro in the wake of the other and hope not to have to trim sails to account for the course of the other.

     How long will this go on? Does the desire to want it make waiting worth it? Is the goal at this point the simple endurance of what is? Every day is just like its predecessor. Not enough to cause an issue or even for change, but not enough to warrant change either. Each day completed is another day gone that could have been spent feeling something else. The countless days spilling out behind like a long trail that gives credence and weight only by its length. How do you argue that what was acceptable for so long simply is no longer acceptable? What is it that can possibly have enough worth that it should tip the scales of dutiful mediocrity? Is it enough to simply say "enough"?

     She finishes her tea and tells herself "One more day". But deep inside, she wonders how much left of herself is there to give, and will she expend so much of herself that she will be unwanted by anyone else? She knows that in order to leave this, she has to be able to say that she gave all that she had. But in doing so, she just may give so much of herself that she dies from the inside, and no one would ever know it but her. Were it up to him and he simply walked away, she could deal with that. But to leave first is to , again, admit defeat. When did the ability to fight be traded for a belief that there was no accomplishment unless she won? Was that really how she felt, or was it how she was made to think of herself by him?

     Out in the dark, somewhere far away, could it be that the answers to unspoken prayers were listened to? Was what she wished and hoped for answered? And did the fears that kept her here worth what may have been somewhere else?  She didn't know, but she often wondered how it was that she was made to hold so soundly to something no more substantial than the wind by mere definition while ignoring the reality of something so much more concrete with sheer will.

     The children are put to bed and the house becomes quiet. He has gone to bed long before her and felt no need to have the touch of her lips or neck as he left. She is simply there. Not close enough within his heart to want, and not far enough away for him to let her seek something else. From the outside of the house, the house glows with the warmth of an enviable home, but each light in a different room; five beacons of indifference.

     She changes her clothes and slides into her side of the bed. No small touch as she slides her body within the covers. No warmth shared between them. She notices the cold blankets pushed into their protective fence as she closes her eyes and sees the darkness within her eyelids, she recognizes that there is still a darker place within.