We sleep alone

My husband and I live together, but we sleep alone. 

He’s a large, burly man who makes me soup, and dominates me in his desires and his decisions. His brand of suffocation was comforting before we moved, but our move to the city has made me feel claustrophobic.

He’s in my apartment now, feet propped up, book in hand. I know there will be questions when I come in. Questions about my day, who I talked to, why I talked to them. There’s never any anger in his questions, but it’s always around the corner - lurking in all 4 corners of every room, and I don’t want to see him yet. 

It usually takes me 10 minutes to make my way up the stairs, but today it takes longer. The elevator is broken, the grocery bags are heavy in my hands, and my legs feel like lead. There are three bags bunched up in my right hand, and all of them are starting to pinch. The heaviest bag is sitting directly on my pinky finger, pushing it all the way back.

By the time I make it to the 12th floor my right hand is throbbing, and the sharpness of the pain makes me drop the bags. There’s a crunch this time, and I slide down the wall in defeat, smacking my head against the wall in the process.

Yellow yolk leaks out of one of the bags. 

I hear a sigh behind me and then the floor is covered in a flurry of my husband's hands, gathering everything up, taking all my responsibilities away. 

“You cracked some of the eggs,” my husband says before walking back into the apartment. 

I smack my head against the wall again listening to it smack, smack, smack, crack. I want my head to split open - I want my brain to explode, but nothing happens. 

I can feel my husband waiting for me inside. I can see the groceries sitting in the kitchen, shoved there, waiting for me to put them away, and I don't want to see them yet.