I can’t wait to be home again. To sit on the couch with my lovely wife and watch thrillers together, or a good Stephen King movie, which we both love so much. I practically skip up the metal stairs of our studio complex, fumble with trembling hands for the keys in my pockets, and open the front door. My shoes find their familiar spot, somewhere haphazardly near the entrance, after which my stinking socks stick to the cold floor. I quickly head to the bathroom to put on a fresh pair, so I don’t bring my dirt from outside any further inside.
The entire bathroom is overwhelmed by the smell of cheap fabric softener—rose-scented, specifically—my wife’s favorite scent. Beneath it, a heavy aroma of filthy sweat, which could never overpower the weak, delicate scent of roses. On the drying rack, there’s no clean shirt or fresh pair of socks for me, just her stinking clothes, which somehow never come out of the wash clean. How hard can it be? The shower itself is, of course, bone-dry again, and a damp towel is nowhere to be found. Oh well, it hasn’t been that long, I suppose.
I softly step into the small living-sleeping-kitchen room of our studio, looking for any sign of life. “I’m back!” I say, half under my breath. There she is, again, lying in bed in the corner of the room. I try not to be too angry with her because I know she’s doing her best, but still. I sigh and begin making some food for us. Frozen pizza, for the umpteenth day in a row. I brush the breadcrumbs off the two least dirty plates in the kitchen and put two pizzas in the oven, instinctively clamping my nose shut as I open the oven door. One margherita, and one chicken pesto—35% off. I set the table and serve the pizzas.
“Baby, are you coming to eat?” I call to the other side of the room, with a bit more confidence than before. Though I know the answer, I still feel tension in the silence. “Love? Are you awake?” I ask, this time a little softer. It remains silent. Bitch. I bite into the nasty pizzas—both my margherita and her awful chicken pesto; if she would just wake up, I wouldn’t have to choke this crap down, but we can’t afford to throw it out. Three-quarters of the way through the chicken pesto, I give up and throw the plates back into the sink, just barely missing her favorite glass. Shit. If I’d broken that, I really would’ve felt awful. On my own, I decide to watch a Stephen King movie anyways, “The Night Flier.”
By now, it’s late at night, or early in the morning, but finally, it feels like I can crawl into bed. My sweet wife has been there for a while, and I do my best not to disturb her as I quietly lift the blankets to crawl in next to her. Cold. It’s always so cold when you first get under the blankets. But that’s what you get when you can’t pay the gas bill. Even the bedsheeta smell like roses—or at least, that’s the intention. Somewhere, between the metallic scent of our old washing machine and copious chemicals, there’s indeed a rose hidden. Somewhere else, in our far-too-small studio, another foul smell is lurking. I move back upright, with a bit too much effort for a man my age, and look around; at the dishes still undone, the messy desk, and the plate with a quarter of already re-frozen frozen pizza. There’s not much more here. It must be that nasty pizza, or the liters of used sunflower oil I so haphazardly pour down the sink.
Apart from the sound of the branches of the tree outside softly brushing against the only small window we have, it’s quiet. There’s no sound at all in this little home. “See you tomorrow,” I whisper into her ear, and I give her a soft kiss.
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the sound of a faucet that won’t shut up. I’ve tried, in vain, to sleep through it, but deep down, I knew it wouldn’t work. I sigh and place my bare feet on the cold laminate floor, moving irritably toward the faucet. I turn it off. The smell, which was mildly irritating when I first crawled into bed, has now expanded into a vile stench that fills the entire studio. With cold fingers, I turn the faucet back on and begin doing the dishes. One by one, I grab each plate and scrub as hard as I can with a steel sponge. I don’t care that they’re getting destroyed—I just want to fucking sleep.
With painful, red hands from scrubbing, I look at my silent wife, who apparently can sleep through anything. If she would just do the dishes, the mess wouldn’t stink so badly that I can’t sleep. But oh well, I love her. It’s okay. The smell seems a bit less strong now; I think it helped. I quickly slip back into bed. Now that the faucet is finally quiet and the smell is somewhat better, I can hopefully get some sleep.
But the cold—goddammit that cold. In bed, it feels even colder than in the room itself, now that I’ve been up. Though I know we can’t afford it, I crawl out of bed again and turn the heater on, so I can at least make it to work tomorrow. Before I can turn around and walk back to bed, I hear it. The branches are now thudding against the window, which has started creaking under the weight of each strike.
I feel it again, that anger. “LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!” I scream, in vain, at the faucet, the window, the bed, and the branches outside. Very quickly, as if I’ve done something truly wrong, I move my hand to my mouth. I look back, but the bed remains still. Thank god. As if someone has heard my message, the wind outside begins to calm. The sound of the branches stops, the window goes quiet, the faucet drips no more, and the pizza, meanwhile, is thawing again now that it’s warmer. The smell lingers, but I can sleep through it, I tell myself. Finally, back in my bed.
Cold. The bed is cold. It’s not my imagination—it’s truly colder in the bed than in the room. Normally, she doesn’t like cuddling in bed, but I know she’d forgive me. I wrap my arms around her and look at her lovingly. “Sorry, love,” I whisper into her cold little ears. I gently turn her head toward me so she can look at me with those beautiful glassy eyes. She comes closer, kisses me with her blue lips, and strokes my tongue with hers. Her plum-colored, bruised throat tempts me, and I can’t resist kissing her neck. The awful stench fills my mouth and lungs, but it’s okay. Tomorrow, we’ll shower together, and the place will smell fresh again.
I spit out the small piece of skin I accidentally tore off and slowly drift asleep.