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by Joan O. Scharf
He wasn't sure when he began to hate her. She is still quite beautiful, he thinks, with her slender figure, unblemished skin and delicate features, barely changed since their marriage five years ago. Watching her as she moves around the kitchen, he feels a familiar warmth creep into his loins, and quickly turns his thoughts to her nature; her whining, self centered, materialistic nature.
She stands at the stove, slowly and carefully frying two eggs, her back defiantly turned toward him. She isn't particularly hungry, but wants to avoid sitting at the same table. She feels he is to blame for their failing marriage. She has strong suspicions and hints that he is seeing other women, and it eats away at her worth. She cannot forgive him for this perceived transgression.
The young child, clad in a sleeveless white cotton nightgown, walks into the thick quiet of the room.. She climbs on a kitchen chair, and sits, with small legs dangling. She is noticed, and yet, she is not noticed. Her father says, "Good morning, chickadee." Her mother says, "Did you sleep ok? Drink your juice. I'm making an egg and toast for you." They speak at her, but remain tightly riveted on each other.
He says, "I have to leave in 10 minutes. I'll be back sometime tomorrow evening."
She whirls around from the stove, rage distorting her face. "Again? You're leaving me alone all night again? It seems you're never home!"
"Look. It's an 8 hour drive. I'll get there in time to grab dinner and book a motel. My presentation for that Stanville Bridge project is scheduled for 9 in the morning. There's no other way."
bile of bitterness forms an arrow in her mouth. "And who are you sharing your bed with tonight?"
The arrow finds it's mark. His expression darkens. "You want to know something? You are one stupid bitch!"
She feels the words spatter against her like hot grease. In spite of her anger, the hurt of his words forces tears that blur her vision.
The child makes a pretense of drinking, taking minute sips of the juice. She sees her mother stiffen and turn away. Her father finishes the last of his coffee and gathers up papers from the table to put in his briefcase. She slips off the chair and runs into the center of the kitchen.
"Look at me!" she calls out. "Mommy, Daddy, look at me! I can hop like a bunny. Watch." She begins to jump up and down, her whole small body focused into the effort. "See me? See me? Mommy, Daddy, let's all be bunnies! Follow me!" She hops around and around in a circle. Her face becomes suffused with dampness in the effort.
He doesn't look at either of them as he straps the briefcase shut and leaves the room.
Toying with the now hardened and browned eggs in the pan, she resolutely keeps her back turned, but strains to hear his receding footsteps, the closing door, the starting car.
The child, her nose running, continues doggedly to hop up and down in circles without speaking. Her small bare feet make muffled sounds on the gray patterned linoleum.
