As work drew to a close, he thought about the awkward encounter awaiting him at home. For the last week and a half, he and his wife had grown distant. They slept on the far edges of their side of the bed, and recoiled when their skin grazed one another’s. Their conversations were short, close-ended exchanges of one or two word answers. There was no compassion, there was no attraction, there was just empty space. And that’s what he wanted. He’d grown tired of the incessant attempts his wife made to rekindle the passion. “I can’t stand her dumb questions about my day,” he mumbled to himself as he slowed his work pace. “If I’m a half hour late, so be it. It’s another half hour of not dealing with that bullshit.”
She sat at home, anxious. Unfortunately, her thoughts were spiraling again. She couldn’t pin exactly when her anxiety became so unmanageable, but it reared its ugly head all too often. Her only distraction at this point was seeing that the clock was nearing 9:00 pm, and he would be home soon. Asking him about his day was her way of trying to escape the reality of how little she accomplished battling her anxiety. It was her escape, and often, it was her only contact with the world outside the house.
At 10:45, His phone rang. He lost himself in paperwork that didn’t need to be finished, and lost track of time. “Of course it’s her. She just can’t do anything on her own.” He sent the call to voicemail. “I’ll go home when I’m good and ready.”
“I wonder why he’s not picking up. He must be with another woman. One that isn’t crazy. One that doesn’t drive him nuts with her fidgeting and panic.” The phone call kicked to voicemail. “It has to be it. He can’t bother to answer the phone, and he’s an hour late. Of course he’s with another woman.” She had memorized the voicemail at this point, as every call she made to him went unanswered. Her message, too, had become rehearsed. “Hey, it’s me,” she tepidly began, “I guess you’re stuck at work again… Give me a call… Please.”