My Reality Now

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Usually, things settle after a while. At first, I liked the predictability, but now it feels like more and more keeps getting added to the story. One wrong move and it becomes part of the narrative.

I dressed up once, and now he expects it every night. I cooked dinner and did his laundry—add that to the list. I do like the things he does for me, though, and I haven’t felt this alive sexually in years. I truly believed no man would want me after I had children, and he can’t get enough of me. My ex-husband once told the neighbor he pretended to be asleep with food in his mouth just so he wouldn’t have to have sex with me. If that doesn’t kill your self-esteem, I don’t know what will.

Sometimes I get tired. If working for him isn’t enough, he also wants nudes, constant texting, personal attention all day. It’s a lot to maintain. Oh well. Let me straighten the pillows and clean up dinner prep. I overheard him saying I’m slipping on the housework. I don’t even live here.

Still, when I act like the lady of the house, he treats me like one—and I like playing the missus in the bedroom. I just hope we’ve recovered from last night. I don’t remember exactly what shifted the mood, only that he became agitated. We ended up in the same place as always, but the sex was different. Angry. It scared me a little. He didn’t respond to my sounds or movements the way he usually does. Instead of easing up, he held me there—possessive. Afterward, he was distant.

I had been honest when he asked about my past. Maybe he was angry about how I’d been treated before. Maybe he wanted to keep me close.

I should make sure his drink glass is chilled. If it isn’t, it throws everything off. Shit. I only have thirty minutes, and I haven’t showered or changed yet. I don’t want to hear about it. He bought that new dress he wants me to wear. It was fun at first—I felt like a princess. Now I feel more like a doll. Not a cute one. A dirty one. The kind you hide.

Last week, he told me how to fix my hair in front of his friends before they came over. He warned me they were “rough around the edges” and might hit on me. I didn’t notice anything at all, but later he said they were making comments about me and threw them out. Why dress me up and get mad when others notice? Especially when he’s encouraged that behavior before. I wasn’t interested, and no one acted strangely toward me. Still, he was angry that night too—accusatory. He went from accusing me, to kissing me, to aggressively making love to me.

Tonight, I want things to go back to normal. I don’t want to add anything new. I liked things the way they were. Every time I do something nice, it becomes expected. Every time I do something wrong, it becomes part of the plot. It’s like Groundhog Day. If I don’t get it just right, the whole evening is ruined.

We already spend thirty minutes driving to and from the post office every day because we had a good time doing it once. If I try to opt out, you’d think I was flaunting a hot date around town. It’s all or nothing with him. Everything is all or nothing.

I guess that’s what I love about him. I know he’ll love me with everything he has. I just don’t know if what he has is enough—or if I’m enough for what comes with it.

Shit. I think I just heard the car. I left a cigarette in the ashtray out back. He’s going to be pissed. If I run now, I could get rid of it, but then I’ll seem rushed and he’ll accuse me of something else. I knew better than to smoke this close to him getting home. He’ll find it.

At least I can brush my teeth and get ahead of the accusation. Fresh breath helps. Cigarette breath feels disrespectful.

He’s still on the phone. What day is it? Tuesday. Great. Tuesdays are when he grills his friend about conspiracy theories—usually involving me cheating. He’ll already be in a mood. I’ll laugh it off tonight. Be sweet. Charming. It worked last night, but last night he was angry about my past. Tonight depends entirely on his paranoia.

Why isn’t the playlist starting? I’ll skip ahead and start dancing in the kitchen. It’s playful. It distracts him. If I can get food into him and survive the interrogation, maybe we can move on and hope for a better tomorrow.

Footsteps. The door slams open, pictures rattling on the wall.

“There she is. There’s my girl. Come to daddy.”

Ugh. He’s drunk—but smiling—and about to knock me over.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“Why? You worried about big daddy?” he says, his voice high, a burp lingering in the air.

Moments like this make me feel connected to him and sorry for him at the same time. He’s what I feel like inside—and what I’m afraid of becoming. I wish someone would save me. I wish I could save him.

“I’m always worried about you,” I say, reading his face. “How was your day? I’ll make you a plate.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don’t like me. I heard you been talking to boys around town.”

Here we go again. Don’t react. Why does this bother me so much? I think he likes it. I don’t. He always takes it too far.

“Don’t be weird,” I say. “It’s annoying.”

“Annoying? I’ll show you annoying. Come give daddy a kiss. Don’t disrespect me.”

I’m not interested anymore. I just want to keep him affectionate long enough to get him to bed. Tomorrow we can try again.

“I’ll give you a kiss, but stop. Seriously.” I can't hide the growing disgust.

“I bet you’d like that,” he says. “Get in bed. Show me what’s mine.”

This is my reality now. We end up in the same place whether I fight or not. I can take it the hard way or the easy way.