Model Husband nosleep

An empty bottle, green tinged and raspy with sand clinging onto its cool surface, lolled tentatively in the man’s hand. If he were a drunkard, he would have surely dropped it already, scattering shards in his vicinity. He then would cut his feet, while getting back to safety of the house behind him, forgetting about the mess he had made. The cuts would make it hard to walk for a couple of days and possibly become another set of scars on the alcohol-dimmed body of the man.

But he was not a drunkard. He felt the weight of the bottle and held it tightly enough, making sure it would not slip out of his grasp. It was safe between his fingers, just as he was between the rocks of the beach he was all too familiar with.

The man liked to consider himself absent-minded. He believed the aura he conjured suited him, air of mystery he so carefully created. It was not artificial or faux by any means. He would let his thoughts drift almost daily, that was a fact. And even if he did exaggerate his pose or facial expression while his mind rambled, often looking like an actor from the golden age of silent films, who had, like a mime, to make his every move crystal clear, he was still believable in his state of meditation.

His wife fancied that part of his nature. Or at least he thought she did; he never bothered to ask. Although, he believed, the curious gaze he would catch whenever he suddenly withdrew from the labyrinth that was his mind and turned his head, was a telltale sign.

Even now he knew his darling dear had her eyes fixated on the back of his head. He did not move, though.

The sudden roar of the ocean that took another hit from the thunder he was observing, sounded like a beckoning cry from within the depths. Not a pleasant one, but rather that of suffering. The sound a whale would make when struck by the hook of a sailor. Teeming with pain but not surprised. Imploring.

The man’s gaze penetrated mushy waves that were hitting the coastline and retreating away from its sandy banks in sequences. He was not trying to locate a drowning man seeking help or a boat caught in the middle of the hectic quarrel between two forces of nature. He was only admiring what he was seeing. What he had seen so many times in his younger days, when his late parents brought him to this horrible, he believed at the time, desolation, whenever they needed to catch breath and hide from the bustle of city life.

Even though such a thunder was never a rarity, especially at this time of the year, it never ceased to amaze him. “Amaze” was the right term; though when he was younger he would have opted for “bewilder”.

If he were to pick his favourite portion of the storm, it would certainly be the air. Ozone permeating its muggy structure, altering its taste so it felt almost metallic. Only then did the air feel so tangible. It reflected the nervousness of all breathing it. Experiencing the unwavering force of Earth that men could not strip it off.

He felt a brief shudder, as his body was met by yet another gust of wind. His blue eye took a glimpse of what was left inside the bottle before the last few drops of the pricey soda quenched what little thirst he managed to develop.

He returned inside, leaving a visible handprint on the glass sliding door that his wife must have closed when he was outside. But why would she do that? She saw him and she knew he did not take his hoodie with him, so he had no material he could have covered his palm with so that it would not leave any stains. Shannon, his mother, stressed his pedantry all too often in front of his – then – soon to be wife, so why did she keep forgetting about it still?

“Hey, can I get you here for a sec?” he said loudly as the bellowing of thunder went mute, softened by thick glass.

Bon Jovi replied to him, blasting from upstairs.

The words were not getting through: Jon had won, as always second to none.

“Maybe it’s for the better?” he thought to himself. Was such a trifle worth arguing over? He would get hot-headed at times, but now, he decided, he would have none of it. He just needed to calm down, fix himself – and his wife, too! – a sandwich, and just get along as if nothing happened. At some later occasion they will both decide to relax in the patio and as they are leaving the house, he will casually mention the stain, maybe jokingly reprimand her and solve the problem like a model husband he is.

As he was structuring the plan, a cool breeze of the weirdly-pink-in-the-daylight refrigerator hit his face. It was full, as always, although he could not remember the last time he went shopping. It was always she that took care of it. Spending way too much on things they could not afford ever since he started to explain to his friends that he was “in between jobs”. If it were him, the shelves would have to bear only half the weight of the products that would be half the price of those present now. Off-brand does not mean off-quality after all!

Peanut-butter for him, something more fancy for her. Both sandwiches seated on the same delicate plate that his wife must have smuggled in from her mother’s house. China, the most traitorous material, almost slipped out of his hand, for a split second ready to share the future the soda bottle was facing just a while ago.

“Crap!” he muttered, realising that not only were his palms wet, but they were also covered in sticky grains of sand. Hopefully they did not get on the sandwiches.

A deep sigh could be heard, as he marched out of the kitchen, upstairs bound, to the main bathroom.

His annoyed glare passed over the photographs hung on the wall along the stairs. He met his own bright smile, his own salient nose and the hazelnut eyes of his. Stills from those happy moments when his hands were not odiously dirty.

Setting foot on top of the stairs, he realised the bathroom was occupied; running water accompanied by Jon Bon Jovi’s vocals had to have made it impossible to hear him from the living room on the ground floor.

“Honey, I…” he began, but his voice cracked mid-sentence, as he put his hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. He heard two voices. One male.

“No, you didn’t, you fucking whore!” he whispered to himself at once, turning his head to face the master bedroom behind him. The door was open, revealing male clothes that certainly did not belong to him. “You fucking didn’t!”

It all dawned on him. She thought he had left, hence the locked patio door. Hence the sudden urge to take a bath in the middle of the day: she was dirty after fucking some filthy man-whore.

The temperature became unbearable, damp. He felt sweat on his temples so he ran his hand over his face. Sand stuck to his moist skin. He whimpered in disgust, trying to get the rest of the dirt off his fingers. The look of sheer panic in his eyes.

“I must look so pathetic right now!” he realised on the verge of tears. “I ca-can’t face that bitch like that, I-I have to prepare myself!”

Shivering, he made his way downstairs. The man from the photographs kept staring him down.

Unknowingly, absent-mindedly – just as he liked to picture himself – he shuffled towards the basement door. Just as he was about to descend into the pitch black darkness, a pang of realisation popped up. The sandwiches. The “sorry-for-being-such-a-grumpy-husband” token.

As silently as he could, trying to keep himself together, he went back one last time and grabbed the plate. There was no time to lose, that bitch could finish sucking him off at any time and he had to hurry.

He has to calm down, tidy himself up, and think about possible solutions. Reasonably, handling it like a grown-up man, not that desperate cuck he has become. He needs some time to think about it, see how the events will transpire. Nobody will look for him down in the basement. He can wait through the situation there. And that slut will not notice the missing plate, hopefully.

With his thoughts rambling he found himself in the corner of the dark basement. Swiftly, as if he had done this many times before, he moved the old rusty furnace aside and fell onto his knees. Behind, a dirty mattress lay in the middle of a narrow crawling space, dimly lit by a single candle. The sickly sweet, pungent smell of rotten food permeated the room.

“Handle it like a grown-up man” he muttered to himself, moving the furnace back to its former place from within the dwelling.

Submitted April 20, 2017 at 05:54AM by Ro-Baal http://ift.tt/2ooICpR nosleep