“I just got divorced,” our gas guy says. “Fucking great. Now no one nags me about the fucking dishwasher, and when I go to a bar and pick someone up, I’m guaranteed a lay.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, towel around my waist, and stare at the side of the dresser where she keeps her perfume and jewelry. Her presence lingers with me everywhere I go, her scent, a forgotten hair tie, a strandof her hair on my coat, but lately, it’s like she’s fading out of the frame.
She’s been busy this past year. She got a promotion, and that’s been taking up her time.
But, hell, I got a promotion too. I became the chief of cardio.
I don’t want to be mercenary, but it’s my job that pays the fucking bills and lets us live the way we do—not hers. We wouldn’t miss her salary.
I told her that once. I meant it as permission for her to quit the damn job. She looked at me like I slapped her.
She said she liked working, that she’s proud of what she does, that it gives her purpose.
Bullshit.
She just needs to feel important somewhere. And since I’m the one with the important job at home, she gets that validation at work.
The thought presses in, leaving guilt and anger tangled tight beneath my skin.
I pull on underwear and a T-shirt, angry with myself.
I’m being an asshole. I know it.
She looked so damn hurt when I told her I was too tired to discuss this shit.
I forgot to pick up our son.
She has every right to ask me to be considerate.
She didn’t yell and scream.
Gordon, our neuro’s wife, does that. We’ve all heard her through his closed office door.
Not Jayne. She just asks for…respect?
Fuck!
I love Jayne.
God, I love her.
But lately, nothing I do is right. Even when she doesn’t say a word, the accusation is there—in the way she looks at me, in the silence between us. I’ve done enough psych rounds to know what this is:projection. My own self-reproach, mirrored back at me.
I don’t know how to get out of this strange place we’re in, where I want to…and do leave whenever there is any kind of conflict. I don’t have the energy to deal with it. I also have no clue how to deal with it when I have the energy.
It’s easier to retreat into the OR, where I know the rules.
There’s a blood clot. You deal with it.
There’s a heart. You make it beat again.
There’s a problem. You find it. You fix it.
I don’t even know what the problem with our marriage is. But it’s hemorrhaging, and I can’t locate the point of rupture to control the bleed.
I brush my teeth and get into bed.
I am tired.AndI need to be in pre-op by five in the morning.
