After fifteen years together they had nothing to talk about. He would read his newspaper in the morning; loudly slurp his breakfast cereal and spill some coffee on his blue-striped shirt. On autopilot she would get up, reach for the kitchen cloth and wipe his shirt clean before rejoining him at the table. She would always sit opposite him, her eyes shifting between him and the main door. In the deafening silence all she could hear was the disturbing sound of the boiling kettle, the tictacking of the clock and his noisy mouthfuls. Oh, how she hated that blue-striped shirt, thinking that it looked like a pyjamas.
She knew the routine by now. Soon he would get up from his chair, wobble into the bathroom and get ready for his nine- to- five job. She would stay behind listening to the sound of the bathroom sink, the uttered ‘fuck’ as he would accidentally cut himself while shaving, and after that she would watch him exit with a white plaster on his neck and a slam. She would then ignore the slamming of the door telling herself it was just the wind, nothing else. And then she would continue suppressing the horrible feeling of loneliness that was consuming her, leaving the kitchen table; her breakfast untouched, knife and fork in the same place as before.
She would get ready for work, put on her make-up and while combing her curly, wild hair the screams from the crying canary bird, caged in the corner of their bedroom, would pin her ears back. Before feeding the canary, which was always hungry, she would gaze at herself, her eerie reflection, and ask for whom she was dressing knowing that the answer was no one.
At work, she would hate the whole idea of lunch breaks because she knew she would waste it chitchatting to colleagues pretending that she was happily married. Around five she would do the regular grocery shopping, walk quickly past the baby section of bottles and dummies at Woolworths, drive home in her fancy BMW, make dinner and wait. Wait for yet another silent dinner conversation and the kitchen cutlery’s heartless scrapping against plates.
Yes, life couldn’t have been better. At least it wasn’t Monday, because Mondays were the worst. After every weekend she dreaded the question of what they had been up to during the weekend. She would always make up the most mind-blowing stories of fishing adventures, mountain hikes and steamy lovemaking in the forest. Everybody at work envied her, but she knew that there was nothing to envy. She knew that she spent weekends alone, or together with her husband in front of the TV, but chose to lie because she couldn’t deal with the fact that her first real love had turned into dead love. The truth was that she had spent the last months in the guest room and she couldn’t really remember how her husband looked like without the blue-striped shirt, not even if she tried.
Somehow the cycle needed to be broken, but she didn’t know how and refilled his cup with coffee. She usually wouldn’t, but she wanted to keep him there a little bit longer for a change, even though his company was as close to nonexistent as it could be. He grabbed the cup without saying anything, not even a muttered “thank you,” and downed it in seconds. She poured another one, but this time it spilled over and the black coffee flooded the white kitchen table and his denim pants.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” she cried reaching for the kitchen cloth as she sat down on her knees to rub the stains off his pants.
“Thank God, the coffee wasn’t hot,” she said as she continued rubbing the stains away with hasty movements.
As she was doing that, two threads of curls fell down her face forcing him to look her in the eyes. Hesitantly, like a young boy who had never touched a girl, he led one of them behind her ear, caressing her earlobe softly between his fingertips. She looked beautiful like that; when she was blushing and didn’t know where to look.
“It’s ok. You couldn’t help it. These things happen, you know.” He answered overwhelmed by the beauty that he had just rediscovered.
He didn’t care about the coffee stains and grabbed her pixie-face between his hands as he bent down to kiss her. It was so long ago since their lips last met that they had both forgotten the rush of a kiss. It was like the first; sparks travelling with the speed of light, erasing any feeling of loneliness that she once harboured. She let go of the cloth and started kissing his ear, his neck. High on his cologne she unbuttoned his shirt, bit by bit. She couldn’t wait to throw that stupid shirt onto the kitchen floor. As her hands drifted down his bare chest he stopped them for a brief second, holding them gently in his and said:
"Honey let’s sell the house, go travelling and set the bird free."
