What's Left Unsaid
By Rena Willis
My husband doesn’t see me and without him, I do not know myself.
In my daydreams he, Jeff, gazes at me, his hands on my hips. I brush my fingers across his cheek, five-o-clock shadow, dimple. I hold my breath.
My husband once asked me why I can’t enjoy myself like I used to, drunk on newfound love, lips glossy with desire. He can’t understand, he says. He doesn’t try to. I am weary.
I pretend not to know about her, the woman he calls beautiful, the woman who isn’t me. He thinks I don’t know. I have become the kind of woman who hides in a lie.
When I am alone, shot through with caffeine and staring at my stainless-steel reflection, I imagine their conversations, knee-to-hip, leaning into each other, his long-fingered hands on her body. With each cup of coffee, I embellish the scene until the words You look so beautiful hang suspended in the air, words not meant for me, yet I cling to them anyway. My Jeff no longer feels the need for such sentimentality. I prefer her Jeff.
I used to dread the day he would tire of me, a remnant of the girl I thought I was, waiting for him to give me shape.
My husband and I have a routine, a tango around our truth. He is unaware of the dance. It is nearly impossible to tell where the lie begins, and we end. We are on our way to dinner. I bait him. “Dinner should be interesting,” I say. I hold my breath, hoping this time will be different. “Did you remember to pay the contractor?” he says. He doesn’t look at me.
I stare at him, at the smile lines on the edges of his eyes, his furrowed brow, the straightforward angle of his cheeks and the no-nonsense turn of his lips. No nonsense, like black tea. Unsweetened. “Are you listening?” he says.
I roll down the window, the thrum of tires on asphalt - calming. I try to imagine her Jeff.
She is with us everywhere - in the car, in our bed, in the space between us. I can feel her like a brush of French perfume along my neck, the sticky residue of their passion that won’t wash off. She is the salt in our wound.
Jeff and I have a daughter, Hannah, who is really more Jeff’s than mine. She would agree. We are at dinner - the long-awaited introduction to the latest boyfriend, Alex, who has lasted longer than the others. Hannah is nervous, giddy, searching for approval. “He could be the one,” she leans over and whispers as the waiter takes our order. I deflate.
Alex regales us with stories about his job, he’s a journalist, and the difficult assignments he is given. He explains. Hannah demurs. My heart clenches. Every time Hannah jumps in, he places his hand over hers; she doesn’t notice. She opens her mouth to speak and instead turns it into a smile. I console myself. She is young and he is just the first of many. A shiny new toy.
She is strong. Not like me.
I glance at Jeff, his attention divided between the conversation and a beautiful woman seated a few tables over. She shimmers, her hair a stylish mess, her long sleek neck exposed – an invitation. His eyes stalk her with a hunger that isn’t there when he looks at me, like a Komodo Dragon on the hunt, tongue flicking, concentration absolute. I try to imagine the man I built a life with, not this man who has never called me beautiful – who has never felt the need.
Alex leans over to whisper in Hannah’s ear. She laughs, unaware of the risk of being devoured.
I push back from the table, chair legs screeching against the floor. “Excuse me,” I mumble, apologetic. Always apologetic. “I need to use the ladies’ room.” Hannah joins me. She chatters as we walk but her words disappear into the background, into the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses and the titter of laughter.
In the bathroom, I avoid making eye contact with a woman washing her hands. I am at the counter trying to smooth my flyaway hair, my reflection that of a stranger, my hands shaking. The hand dryer clicks on and off. Hannah stands beside me. She eyes me in the mirror as she adjusts her dress. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she says. The faucets drip. “What we have is special, like you and Dad.” I grip the edge of the counter, the world moving around me. “That’s what I want,” she says. “What you and Dad have.” The silence is deafening.
THE END
Author Bio: Rena Willis is a writer and an educator. Her fiction work has appeared in New Flash Fiction Review and The Ekphrastic Review, and is forthcoming in Headland Journal. She loves new ideas and encourages different perspectives. She is the founder and director for an International K-12 school in Costa Rica where her passion for writing and her love for learning intersect. She strives to make a positive difference in her community and in the world. She believes we succeed together.