The following short story could possibly used for as the beginning of a longer piece. I wrote it during my graduate program at SNHU and have no idea where to go from here.

I put my head down onto the smooth surface of our kitchen table. It was cool on my forehead, although I felt the crumbs which he had failed to wipe after his usual breakfast of multigrain toast and almond butter. So predictable, it was all so predictable, and I fought my growing need to pack a bag, grab our child, a sixty-pound German shepherd mix, and embark on a road trip. Visions of U-Haul trucks danced, and my body was torn between the desire to flee and the desire to wipe the crumbs so that I could comfortably sleep for weeks on the Formica tabletop.  

I covered my head with my hands, and I could feel him looking at me, judging me. I had a momentary desire to caress his back like I used to when we snuggled for movie night. I wanted to leave, but I also wanted to curl up into a ball and ignore the world. “You fucking asshole.” It came out as a whisper, and I am not sure he even heard me. I struggled to tamp the anger down, to stuff it inside so that he would not even realize how much those words had hurt me, had ripped through my insides like a dull knife. Maybe this was what childbirth would feel like. Guess I would not find out as my husband was fucking someone else. My mother always used to say, “Ellie, don’t let them see your weaknesses, never let them know when they’ve hurt you because they’ll use it against you.” 

If I could just fall asleep right here right now maybe his words would float away, disintegrate before they caused any real damage to our marriage. The hum of the refrigerator infiltrated my revery, and I could hear Bosco tapping his too-long nails back and forth on the wooden floors in our living room. It was as if all other sound had been sucked into some vortex. Was that what a black hole was? If we stood next to one would each and every word he had just uttered be sucked into the ether? Of course that was ridiculous, what did I know of black holes; I had failed astronomy in college, the reading had been too dense, the concepts too complicated and the professor’s voice too monotone for me to gather any sort of motivation to give a shit.   

I picked my head up to glance out the window then quickly put it back down. The sun peeked from behind cumulus clouds and I remembered our first date. We both sat at a well-worn picnic table at Stanley Park, and I had fed the ducks crumbs from the French bread he had packed in a picnic basket. We had demolished a bottle of red wine as we sat and watched the people and ducks wander by. I preferred white but failed to mention it until our first dinner out. Then I had ordered the 2004 Kendell-Jackson Chardonnay, and he had wondered out loud why I did not choose the red. Like he had even bothered to ask me my preferences, men always assume they know best. That first date was magical though, despite the wrong wine. The ducks descended the moment I tore a bit of crust from the heel of the crusty bread and tossed it into the grass. It surprised, then scared me as a rather large Mallard charged through the throngs to snatch the remaining morsel. Was that the first time I emoted in front of my soon to be husband? He had saved me then, why wasn’t he saving me now? I heard him closer now, “Ellie, please. Please just look at me.”  But I could not. He would know exactly what I was thinking, and I did not want him to know what this was doing to me.  

I did not know how I would be able to lift my head again, let alone turn and look into the face of the man I had fallen in love with so many years ago. I was just so tired. “Ellie, please,” he said. Both of my fists slammed on the table and the salt and pepper shakers toppled. “No no no no no no no.  No. I cannot fucking look at you right now because if I do…” What? What would I do? The refrigerator had gone quiet and I heard a dull thud as Boscoe grew weary of his pacing. What would happen to him? We had raised him from a puppy. How could we split up our lives? Where would I live? This was his place first; I had moved myself in bit by bit as the months turned into years before we finally married in an outdoor ceremony two years ago. This was his table that cradled my head, it was his old rusty Toyota that I drove to work. It was his life that I had slipped into. What would my mother say? She would blame me. 

I heard him take another step towards me. “She talks to me Ellie. She looks at me; she yells at me when she gets angry. She touches me. What happened to you?  Please Ellie, just look at me.” When had I felt that he did not love me anymore? Maybe as we were walking down the uneven lawn towards the makeshift garden archway that his best man, his best friend Daniel had constructed for us. I had no one to walk me down the aisle and we decided it was an antiquated tradition anyways. That day the garden smelled of freesia which was arranged in terracotta pots at the base of the arch, and my palms were sweaty as I held onto his hand tightly, unable to walk on my own. His Uncle Mike had officiated for us and had given him an odd look as we approached. Was that the beginning of the end? Had Mike seen something on his face as he walked beside me? He smiled that relaxed jittery smile of a man about to get married as he turned to face me at our makeshift altar. The freesia was overpowering. His grandmother wore freesia perfume and look how she turned out, a bitter old woman alone except for an ancient cat which reeked of pee and tuna fish. He touched my back then, gently. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this, I cannot keep trying to read your mind.” His touch then vanished, as if it were never there for that brief moment as he spoke. The memory of our wedding and of the freesia vanished as quickly. I felt the urge to escape. 

If I could maneuver my body so that he could not see my face, I could slip out of the room, grab Boscoe and take him for a walk, maybe this would be ok. Maybe, just maybe he would change his mind by the time I returned. He would choose me; he would love me. He would gather me in his arms and stroke my hair. He would break up with that other woman and would return to loving me. But I needed to look at his face, needed to see if he was really telling me the truth, that he really did not love me anymore. I picked my head up, wiped the crumbs from my forehead, smoothed my hair back from my tear- streaked face and slowly turned to face him. But he was no longer there. “Choose me,” I whispered to the empty doorway as the refrigerator resumed its gentle hum.