The awkwardness at home is impregnable, the tension so thick it stifles. I don’t know what I hope to achieve with my recent attitude but I am tired of being vulnerable and alone in love. Telling my best friend this doesn’t shield me from her hostility or the cold glare she levels at me, I shrink under her gaze, swallow and grip the steering wheel.

“Is this a joke?” Clarissa asks for the third time since she got into the car, I purse my lips and shake my head slowly. In a heavily accentuated voice, she adds, “Are you mad?”

“It’s just hair,” I reply and pat my short, black hair with gold streaks. “It will grow back.”

Coiffed at the back with a pixie cut in front that sometimes falls into my eyes, I have to admit, the new hairstyle looks good on me. I take a long peek at myself in the rearview mirror, flash my reflection a smile much to Clarissa’s horror and make a peace sign.

My brown eyes crinkle at the corners from trying to maintain the smile on my lips, I wiggle my trimmed eyebrows, keeping my gaze on the mirror to delay the inevitable.

“El. Elna, are you having a breakdown?” she asks. “I don’t understand, what’s going on?”

Taking a deep breath, I fold my hands on my legs and shake my head with a practised smile. Nothing is confusing about this. She thought Brandon’s haircut looked good on him, I think mine looks good on me. Plus, her surprise will wear out soon, it’s just hair. I roll down the window, letting out the suffocating air and she looks out the other side.

Today, her hair is in bra length pigtail braids and I would have teased her about it if she wasn’t so upset. I smoothen my monochrome Palazzo with a tiny smile curving my lips, Brandon had watched like a hawk while I dressed. He doesn’t leave the house until I am dressed and ready to go, like he is afraid I will repeat the stunt I pulled ten days ago.

The stunt that has turned us into mini strangers. It is hard living with someone I don’t want to talk to or see, especially if the person is my husband. But we cuddle and act all shocked when we wake in each other’s arms, then go the whole day without a word to ourselves except the usual greetings I always respond to half-heartedly. I don’t like him.

After sulking for a day, he had come around but I wasn’t ready, I don’t know if I am now. I didn’t step out in the maxi dress but he didn’t know that. Maybe he does but chose not to mention it. After all, he is good at keeping things from me. What’s his issue with Josh?

Clarissa is still looking out the window when I raise my head, I rub my hands over my knees. Calling her name is futile, my eyes twitch when she refuses to turn in my direction. I am horny, sexually starved, I don’t need her silent treatment. The horniness might explain my frequent mood swings, I need his touch but I am still upset with him.

“But you liked Brandon’s haircut,” I finally say.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, she lets out a derisive laugh without meeting my gaze. “Is that what this is about?” Her head snaps in my direction. “Revenge?”

There’s no point arguing or denying it, I tug on the hem of my shirt and say, “Kinda.”

Her disappointment is palpable, my eyes refuse to leave my outfit and I trace the lines on my blouse. If she hadn’t brought up the idea of punishing him, I might have forgiven him long ago. Gripped by a sudden feeling of loneliness, I bite the insides of my cheeks.

I miss him.

A click shatters the silence, the sound of the door opening. Clarissa steps out, her head pokes into the car, her smile is forced. She drawls out the words, “I am going home.”

“Clarissa.” A scream tears through my lips when the seatbelt refuses to unbuckle, I tug on it and groan, eyes darting between the red button I should press to eject the seatbelt and her retreating figure. When I finally get out of the car, she has walked a distance so I rush over to stand in front of her. I try to touch her shoulders but she jerks back. “Clary.”

She frowns, hands still inside her pockets with her face set in a neutral mask. I gulp, lips quivering. “But I was going to drop you off,” I say. We are standing a few feet from the entrance of her workplace, I spare one look around, at the cars and bicycles. No one is in sight. My hands circle her wrists, I bat my eyelashes at her. “Come back, please.”

My pleas don’t faze her, she shakes her head. “No, I’ll walk. Thanks for the offer.”

Her reply stings as much as her walking out on me. It feels like a slice of the treatment I have been dishing out to Brandon and my chest tightens in disbelief. My eyes water, it is a twenty-minute walk home, a five-minute drive. She didn’t even hug me goodbye.

Once I get back in the car, I dial her number to tell her the truth about the hair but she doesn’t pick. Brandon will blow up if he sees me and the thought sends a shudder down my spine. My fingers hover above the Apple store, I download Instagram and alter my bio to look like his. Sitting there in silence, I convince myself to unblock him. I shouldn’t have because soon enough I am sending him a text that reads: Hey, I’m sorry. I miss you.

But he doesn’t reply and my calls go unanswered. Undeterred, I redial his number and goosebumps litter my arms as the phone rings. What if he is busy? Maybe he is pissed.

The drive home is fraught with multiple darts to my phone, I turn on the radio and a sad song floats into the car. I sing along, the lyrics cut through me, a wish for the things the singer once had. I wish the same for me too, to go back in time, before his travel.

On getting home, tears well in my eyes at the sight of the space where his car should be, I let them fall, trail down my cheeks in fat droplets. I am a mess, an emotional wreck.

* * *

No calls, no texts. Nothing. Radio silence. I pace the length of the kitchen in his shirt with the top buttons open to reveal a glimpse of my breasts in a black, cotton bra. Maybe I shouldn’t have unblocked him. Maybe he’s tired. My hand finds the pocket of my shorts, a tiny jean that reveals half of my buttcheeks under his shirt, I stop in front of the fridge.

A second rolls by, I open the fridge to see it has been restocked with the same brand of dark chocolate I have been binging on. These bittersweet junk must be the reason my breasts appear bigger. And sore too. I barely eat what Brandon cooks even though my appetite has largely improved but I snack on the most unhealthy items I can find.

It has nothing to do with our fights, he just doesn’t cook what my stomach wants. And I am too obsessed with ignoring him to request a different meal. A pang of momentary guilt hits me when my hand closes around the last batch of chocolates, I shrug it off, close the fridge with my foot and slide to the floor with the bars scattered in front of me.

There are ten of them. I never ask who they belong to, who restocks it, all I do is eat. A big part of me knows they belong to Brandon, he is the only person I know who can find this bitterness a delicacy. For God’s sake, that man takes his coffee without creamers.

Setting my phone on the floor after creating a playlist of sad songs which soon filter into the air, I start on the first one, gobbling the dark snack without fully chewing it like it will disappear if I eat slowly. That familiar tang settles on my tongue, a flavour I have gotten used to. My thoughts surround me, the voice in my head begs me to slow down.

The tile is cold against my thighs, I welcome the chill with a sadistic smile. I sniff, move my head to the sorrowful tunes coming from my phone, how do I even have these kinds of songs? If I was a drinker, booze would have suited the ambience, sadly I am not. I stand to retrieve a bottle of water and sip from it at intervals. My head clears a bit, I must have imagined the sound of footsteps, the faint calling of my name. I resume chewing.

On the eighth bar of chocolate, when the bitterness is all I can feel and my tongue is raw, I bury my head in my palms and burst into tears. The current song hits home, why does love have to hurt so much? Because love is stupid, an old myth. I giggle, a low pathetic sound, pick the half-eaten bar and chomp it. The empty wraps under my feet scrunch when I move, I wonder how many I need to eat for it to be considered unhealthy.

Shoes appear in my line of vision, I lift my eyes to the owner. Brandon? I moan. My baby. My heart soars, happiness spreads through my chest and my lips pucker. He hasn’t seen me yet so I wipe all traces of tears from my face, watching him glide into the kitchen to drop a pack of chocolates on the counter. Guilt stabs my chest again, he buys and I eat.

His jacket hangs from his shoulders, the frown etched on his lips stops me from calling out to him. He walks to the door, stops and turns around like he forgot something. His gaze lands on me, his jacket falls to the floor as he rushes to crouch in front of me.

“Elna,” he says, brows creasing, eyes running over my face for any sign of injury. Why else is a grown-ass woman like me seated on the kitchen floor on a bright, sunny day if I am not injured? His fingers hover above my cheek, I don’t blame him for being hesitant to touch me, I bring his hands to palm my face and pout. He smiles. “What happened?”

Torn between ignoring or talking to him, I shove him. I have grown unusually aggressive and I hope that behaviour ends with the tears, mood swings once we straighten this out. I am tired of fighting him, even more tired of always forgiving and fighting for him.

“Do you care or you just want to get in my pants?” I snap when he remains composed.

Kicking off his shoes, he chuckles and a frown settles on my lips. I allow him to pull me to his laps, hide my face in his chest. “What’s wrong, El?” I sniff. “Please talk to me.”

There’s a plea in his voice, it tugs at my heart and my hand goes to my scalp to make sure the satin scarf is still in place. I don’t want to ruin this moment. Raising my eyes to his face contorted in intense concentration as he awaits my response, I swallow. My mouth opens, I freak out and look away, twisting the button of his shirt until it falls off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says before I can get a word out. I look from the button that spins out of sight to his face which lights up in a smile and nod. “How was school?”

“Clarissa is mad at me.” I smack him on the arm, tug on my—his shirt. “It’s your fault.”

He sighs. “I know.”

Staring at his face, anger surges through me, a violent rage directed at him for taking the blame for something that has nothing to do with him. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You don’t know.” I blink. “You don’t know anything. You are a horrible husband.”

“Elna.”

“Leave me alone.”

But he doesn’t, instead, he stays quiet. His arms tighten around me to stop me from crawling out of his embrace and I design his shirt with my tears. He rocks from side to side, I unbutton his shirt and trace a line on the neckline of his singlet until my eyes dry.

“I ate your chocolates,” I say, “sorry.”

He chuckles, his jaw connects with the top of my head. “Mi casa su casa, Elna Stark.”

Branon’s reply evokes a tingling sensation between my legs, I tug on his lips, sinking my teeth into the insides of mine. My lips descend on his crooked nose, I place a kiss there, move down to the corners of his lips. His eyes, darkened with lust, mirror the desire in mine, I pull his lip between my teeth and moan when he gives my ass a small squeeze.

Straddling him, my hands wrap around his neck, I arch my back and grind against him. I whimper when his fingers brush my breasts, teasing me. His expression is guarded, I drink in the sight of him, splay my fingers on his chest and whisper his name in his ear.

My fingers move feverishly on his buttons, I frown when he grabs my wrists. “Do you forgive me?” he asks. I don’t understand why my forgiveness is so important. “Elna?”

“How was Paris?” I say, “you left me.” His lips part, I press a finger to stop his words, I don’t want his excuses. He wins again, I can’t continue the silent treatment. “I needed my husband and you were not there.” My hands meet his shoulders in a weak punch, a look flashes in his eyes. “I was sad. Angry. Hurt. Scared. I thought you left me for good.”

Brandon shakes his head. “Never.”

“You say that now but you had no troubles leaving me for a month,” I say, no trace of anger in my voice. “Bad man. Terrible man.” My head dips to capture his protest, my tongue darts into his mouth. I moan and whisper against his lips, “Bad Husband.”

Our tongues tango, his hand moves to the back of my head to keep me from moving, from talking. My teeth sink into his bottom lip, I don’t let go until I feel the taste of blood and he withdraws. He cups my butt, I suck gently on the cut, running my fingers through his scalp and down to his back, willing his shirt to disappear so I can touch him to my fill.

Taking my shirt off, I bring his hands to cup my breasts. “You didn’t call, not even once. You should have replied to my texts or emails.” At least on our anniversary is what I want to say but the words hitch in my throat. My hand reaches behind me to palm his length poking my butt, I stroke it gently and turn to him. “But no. You chose to go on dates with those ladies. Did you have to go on so many?” His mouth parts, his hands on my chest freeze, I say, “Touch me, please.” He kneads my nipple, I moan. “I was jealous.”

His eyes beg for pardon, I swipe my finger on his lip. “I didn’t know, I will do better.”

Resting my head in the crook of his neck, I say, “Doesn’t matter. If I could turn off my feelings for you, I would.” I stare at the cabinet, Brandon stiffens but it doesn’t stop me from adding, “But I can’t. And it hurts because I know you will never love me back.”