“You never get sick in the summer.”
In this rhythm, he’s going to find out, and I can’t allow that.
“It’s nothing, Vian. Stop it.” I inhale a deep breath. “Now rest.”
“Whatever you say, wife.”
I take his temperature and luckily, it’s down, but it’s still higher than normal.
I check his injury next. No fresh blood coats it, and I apply a new bandage.
I am too restless to sit, and prolonged nearness to him would only make it harder to stay strong.
Needing to do something, I say, “I’m going to make soup.”
“We have some in the fridge.”
“I’ll make another one. And if you dare to get out of bed, I will throw the broth on you and boil you instead.”
He chuckles and makes himself comfortable on the bed to show that he can behave.
Sure. And the Earth is flat.
In the kitchen, I busy myself with chopping the vegetables and the chicken, imagining it’s my love I hack to pieces.
I wait for the water to boil, then move onto the terrace. Resting my elbows on the railing, I look down. From this height, the city resembles an ant farm.
The only way is down. I am not suicidal, though.
I glance at my watch, seeing it’s been an hour, and knowing him, he’s getting fidgety. Being constantly mad at him exhausts me.
Preparing a bowl, I bring him one first. Taking care of my husband. Such a good wife. If he hadn’t discarded the bullets, I would have unloaded it––into me.
His head lolls to the side, a strand of his thick brown hair falling onto his brow, giving him an irresistible appeal, my fingers itching to touch him. Sunlight streams through the window, showcasing all his magnificence.
Each breath causes his chest to fall and rise, rippling across the valley of sculpted muscles carving his torso.
Stop ogling him.He’s ugly on the inside. I wish I could believe that.
I sit next to him, palming his chest, and his heart thumps under my touch as if greeting me.
He’s going to wear me down by doing nothing. I can’t have that. I refuse to travel this vicious road with him again, so I remind myself of his two unforgivable crimes: killing my beloved father and wiping my memories.
Instantly, my walls go up, and I poke his uninjured side to wake up. “Eat.”
“You?” he tries, his voice playful. “Your juices would quickly restore my health.”
I stare him down with an annoyed look, shoving the bowl in his hand.
He takes a spoonful, and a sound of satisfaction vibrates in his throat. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
“I did it because I must. In case you forgot, you locked me in here with you, you madman.”
Something strikes his features, something akin to disappointment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared.
“How could I forget?” he grumbles and takes another spoonful. “Did you eat?”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
