Twenty Years

“That's good.”

She's got hold of the spoon in her left hand, her right must be resting on her lap underneath the table. It's just out of view, the tablecloth obscures it with an embroidered white paisley pattern, a gift from her mother when we moved out together for the first time. That must be…god, twenty years ago? Her mother's been dead for five, so…yeah, twenty years give or take.

The odd thing here though is the hand. Left hand. She's right handed, I know she is. Write with her right. Waves with it. TV remote. Letter opening. Pen usage. Any food we eat which only requires one utensil. Right. Hand.

Yet tonight, it's her left.

“It means more hours, so I'll sadly be out of your hair a bit longer than usual, but that extra money would do well for little Sam’s Eighteenth Jar.”

He's on with his friends tonight, some sort of shooting game, escaping a purple cloud but also other people? Sure as hell ain't Donkey Kong.

…she's not smiling. That's the third small joke I've made. The second time I've mentioned my promotion.Not a single mouth twitch. That's not good.

“Mhm.”

Her soup, it's barely even gone down. Hell the soup looks like it'll spill out of the bowl. Shit. Ok, ok think.

Hair! Hair looks…like hair, it looks like hair fuck how do I not notice differences like hair? Ok, forget the hair. Nails. Well I can only see one hand, but I doubt she'd leave one hand and Michael Jackson the other. Nothing I can see.

Not hair. Not nails…maybe friends? Some sort of squabble? I'm no good at helping with that though, she knows that. She specifically asked me not to help with friend troubles. Ok. Act casual, take a sip of the soup. Damn, that is good soup. Ok, go, casually.

“So uh, how are things with um…”

“Deborah?”

“Yeah, yeah Deborah! You guys doing ok?”

Jesus Christ. That was rough buddy. Of course her name is Deborah, you go drinking with Johnny every Sunday! God that's bad man even for you.

“Good. She made cookies for the office. Oat and raisin”

“Ah, the poor man's chocolate chip?”

Oh. Oh she did not like small joke number four. Ok that's a wrap on the jokes. Fool me four times, I'm just an asshole. Those eyes though…Jesus, she's mad. Not at the joke either. She's...

“I-I’m sure they were lovely dear” and smile.

Not hair. Not nails. Not friends. Ok, it's me. I've left the toilet seat up too many times again. Or forgot..something. No, no I have reminders for the big stuff. Something with Sam? He is 16 now, we haven't had too much trouble but he can be a bit hot headed.

A sigh. Spoon down. Eye contact. She's…oh god, she's sad.

“Derrick. Are you…are you happy?”

…happy? Wow ok, did not expect that.

“Happy dear? Of course I’m happy” another smile, and mean it. You are happy.

“No, not like ‘are you happy with me and if you say no I'll be mad’. Are you happy? With work. With that promotion. With being a father. A husband. Sunday drinking with Johnny and the sun rays in the morning. Are you happy?”

I…what is happening right now? Have I looked depressed recently? I mean the bags under my eyes have been a bit more noticeable. And I do complain about work sometimes. But with being a father? A husband?

“Have I…not looked happy? Because I can promise you I-”

“No Derrick please no its-” a deep breath, she pinches her nose, eyes shut. “This isn't a wife trying to investigate their husband, it's just, it's just me, asking you a question”

“...ok? Yes. I am happy with Sam, even though he can wind his neck in sometimes, he takes after me that way I suppose.”

A smile…a smile! Small, tiny even, but it's there! She's smiling!

“And yes, as a husband too, I am happy. I am…old fashioned, I know. But you truly make me happy Liz. I wouldn't have moved out with you two decades back if I didn't want to spend my life with you.”

Still a tiny smile, but her cheeks have gone a slight bit red. That's good!..I think.

“Work is…work. I am happy what the money allows me to give you and Sam. But happy with the job? When it goes well, yes. When it doesn't.”

Clench fist and shake, cartoonish like. She chuckled! A beautiful chuckle.

Silence. Maybe too long but, why is she asking this?..

“Are…you happy? As a mother? As…as a wife?”

Hesitation. The smile is gone, just a few seconds, before she looks up from the floor, and smiles.

“Of course I am. I'm sorry, I just saw a list of questions in a magazine I read at the hairdressers and thought I'd ask you.”

So her hair is cut…right? She wouldn't lie about that? She's happy, she says she's happy, so she's happy!..

A kiss, I wasn't paying attention. Her lips touch mine, and she pulls away and smiles again.

“Well done baby, we should celebrate your promotion some night, a dinner perhaps?”

She takes our bowls to the sink. Her soup edges closer to spilling over.

“You're not hungry tonight?”

Hesitation again.

“No, no I have no appetite it seems” she chuckles. But it's not real. It sounds off.

She wasn't asking me for her sake. She wants to know if she's justified with how she feels…

No, no she said she's happy. She's happy! She's, she's happy…

“I'll go grab Sam's bowl from his room.”

“Mhm”

I leave. She hums a song as I walk away. A melody I recognise but can't name. It sounds bittersweet.

Joshua Ray