She was at the kitchen preparing his breakfast when he walked to the counter and slumped to the nearest chair. She smiled but her eyes were somewhat dump and a worried look was clouding her face. She appeared disturbed on that particular morning but he seemed not to care.
“Good morning, hon,” she greeted, trying her damn hard to sound cheerful.
But a nod was all he can afford to give her as he busily scan the pages of the morning newspaper, trying to land at the sports section.
“Coffee is ready. Want one?” she offered, again, attempting for at least a decent conversation with her husband.
“Black. No sugar,” he answered lamely without even lifting his face.
She looked at him and was about to say something. But then she changed her mind and shook her head instead. She let out a troubling sigh.
“I had a bad dream last night,” she uttered as she poured his coffee in a mug.
Then she looked at him, hoping for a reply. But there was none. He seemed more enthralled in what he was reading than listening to what was bothering her.
But she proceeded nonetheless. “I dreamt that I jumped from our window, all the way from the 26th down to the ground. I…I actually saw my body crushed as I landed on the pavement downstairs.”
She gave him his coffee and waited for a response. Again, there was none. He lifted the mug she gave him and sipped quietly, eyes still glued on last night’s game.
“I-it scared the hell out of me. I…I saw blood all over me. A-and m..my head…w-was crushed l-like…oh geez…”
He seemed not to hear her. As a matter of fact, he appeared not to have noticed that his wife actually exists and was at the kitchen with him fixing his breakfast, trying to have a small talk. Just a small talk. Nothing really serious.
He placed down the mug right at the same spot where she placed it for him. He turned another page of the newspaper and ignored her totally as if she wasn’t standing beside him and begging for conversation.
“Hon?” she asked, just making sure that he’s still with her.
Finally, he lifted his eyes. “What?”
She drew a deep breath. She was all wrong about him after all. He was actually listening to her.
But he shook his head to what seemed to him ridiculous as he mumbled words before ignoring her —again.
“Hon…? Do…um, do you love me?” she asked, about to cry any minute.
But there was no answer.
“Hon, do you love me?” she repeated, this time with a lump to her throat.
“Cut the crap Dolores! I’m reading the newspaper, can’t you see?! Stop watching those shitty soaps at night and you will finally realize that it’s about time you quit the drama!”
And he buried his face to the newspaper again with face contorting in anger.
But she just stood beside him in silence. Her heavy breathing was the only indication of her presence. Then her feet started to move slowly. She never looked back at him as she walked away. Slowly…
All she wanted was a conversation. At least for once. At least…for the last time.
Her fists tightened. Within a span of seconds all forms of abuses she experienced from him came in a rapid phase. She was the unloved wife. The fatty wife. The unglamorous. The unheard legal wife. The unattractive. But he needs her. Oh yes, he does. So she can cook his damn food, iron his clothes, wash his dirty shirts with lip marks from unknown whores! Oh yes, he damn so needed her!!!
And without any words, she ran furiously towards their window and jumped from the 26th floor.