Two Masks

I woke up thirty minutes before my alarm to go to the bathroom. One of those trips where I had to sit on the toilet weird. Got back into bed, and Sophie and I happened to be in sync this month. She rolled over, I did too, and we made love like we usually did these days, on our sides, rushed, and half awake. Once finished, we lay next to each other, not really saying much. I almost told her I loved her and thought she was pretty and everything, but my alarm went off. She patted my arm with her fingers, nails self-polished white, and I rolled out of bed to dress.

My khakis and button-down were strangely too tight. Looks like I needed to size up.

Later, sunlight lightening the kitchen, I sat at the counter nursing a sweetened coffee blinking sleep from my eyes. Sophie came down, too, and filled her mug, black. After a scalding sip, she stared at her reflection in the steel curve of the refrigerator. She ran a hand along her hip.

“It’s like a carnival mirror,” I said, helpfully.

“Hmm,” is all I got before I pecked her on the cheek, peeled my mug off credit card bills, left behind a circle of coffee stain over the minimum payment due, and retreated into the office room. I closed the door, drew up privacy curtains, sat in a high-back office chair, slipped on sound-canceling headphones, and immersed myself. Before work, I began my usual ritual of social media updates coupled with a quick Google search of flight prices. Anywhere. Hawaii again, Europe, Japan, Cancun, Bahamas. Everything still too expensive. More than our mileage point rewards could hope to obtain.

And thus I dove into my marketing work, employed for an HR software firm. I worked hybrid-remote. Half the week, I was home developing promo materials and plans. The other half of the week I was at work meetings with executives and managers with numbers and data. In all, I hated it. I slipped every day into a slump of tireless circles trying to push, push, push, but no matter the results, my team and I were less than satisfactory. Since the company went public and investor insight drove demands and changes, I slumped deeper and deeper into the slog.

Sophie? Without another word she was off to the dealership to push sales until dark, working late to try and make a commission as prices soared, interest rates flying higher, and people sat waiting for better stats.

It was past dark when she came in with pursed lips. I sat at the table as she dumped Chinese takeout onto the table and blinked in surprise at the cold pasta sitting at her spot. A simple organic noodle glazed in canned, vegetarian Mediterranean sauce.

“Wasn’t it my turn to cook, George?” she asked.

I shook my head. “It’s Tuesday.” Hesitated. “I don’t think Chinese is cooking.”

She shrugged and scooped the pasta into a tupper and loaded a fresh plate of stir-fried noodles and orange chicken.

“Shouldn’t we be trying to eat in more? Save money? We had to do the minimum on our credit card again.”

“I was too tired,” she said.

“How much can we put to the bills?”

A shrug.

Over on a small desk near the fridge, a fresh pile of bills sat. Credit cards. Mortgage. Water. Electric. All of them, getting out of control. Ever since the furnace had to get fixed and after Sophie had rolled through a stop sign and tore off the rear bumper of a soccer mom’s minivan, coupled with inflation, tax hikes, and an HOA final warning notice for weedy yards, we were in dire straits.

Halfway through her plate she stopped and looked distastefully at the orange chicken and chow mein.

“I bought a membership to the gym.”

“What?” I said.

“I'm going to try going three times a week.”

“How, how are we going to pay for it?”

“It’s ten bucks a month,” Sophie said. Her expression flattened. “Don’t you want me to slim up?”

“I mean, I,” I couldn’t answer without putting my foot in my mouth. “I just think, we need to think about saving. You hate working out.”

“Well, I’m gaining too much weight.”

“They usually have a yearly hidden fee with those. Did you check the fine print?”

“No.”

“It’s probably there.”

“I’ll just make a sale this month,” she set her fork down on the plate, lips pursed.

“I thought that would go towards the Delta card bill.”

“Some of it can.”

We sat. A low rumble of rain pattered against our windows. It rolled in so fast. I’d been inside all day I didn’t even know. The third storm this week.

Our conversation ended there, and she, in some defiance, pushed her plate away and went upstairs with the glow of her screen illuminating a brooding expression. I sank in my seat, unsatisfied with the bland pasta, and finished her take-out.

I never expected her to stick to the gym, as many new year revolutionists try, but the following morning she was up in yoga pants and a training top. Her hips bulged out and her shoulders looked swollen against black shoulder straps. Of course, I didn’t say anything. But she raised her phone, filming for TikTok and gave a peace sign.

“Day one to the gym,” she said to the phone. Luckily I wasn’t visible, blinking in the light, surprised she was up before me. “Current weight, one hundred eighty-three.”

And she was off without saying goodbye. It was a phase, I told myself and went to fix up my usual coffee and push bills into the drawer for another day.

It wasn’t. The days went on and she continued every morning to post content. The next morning she narrated the soreness, and the fatigue, and was going to make a spinach and fruit smoothie. The following day, “Day two to the gym. Almost couldn’t wake up. But you know what they say, set your schedule and never let it go.”

As the weeks went, I continued my work cycle half listening to her create content before and after workouts. The few times I hopped on social media I liked her posts in support but didn't give much more. Soon she was down to one-seventy. Sixty. Fifty. She bought new clothes and we only had a tense stare-off as I asked about the vanished savings and growing interest. One-forty. Thirty. Twenty. She was half my weight.

Almost a year later I sat at my desk at work. She texted me, “I’m going to be home late.” I sighed and slunk down. A feeling stirred in my gut. Since her gym excursion, she had indeed paid off the expenses in that venture. Appearance definitely correlated with sales. She landed more sales and even made top salesperson of the month. She was staying later and later, invited to dinners or whatnot with her work friends. A work trip to California for a sales retreat. Some of it I was sure was legit. Others, I questioned. Each night, I lay alone. Each morning she’d leave before I could ask. I browsed the internet to satiate my desires. Sophie? She continued the gym and the sales. With all of this, she bought a new car without asking me. She bought more clothes.

“We can’t afford this,” I argued. “We don’t have the funds. You’re not selling that much.”

“I’ll make it work,” she chided. Nothing more.

Soon we climbed into bed and awoke at different hours.

Another month passed and I sat at work scrolling through my social media. Again, shoulders slumped, noticing her followers and likes and comments. My coworker Timothy rolled over, likely going to ask something work-related but saw me watching Sophie’s latest TikTok. He was a raging, recently declared bisexual loose missile. He looked over and, of course, said, “I’d hit that.”

“That’s my wife,” I muttered in contempt.

“Brother, you did well,” he said and slapped my arm.

The few times our work team went out for lunch he’d always point out some attractive patron. “I’d hit that,” became his tagline. We all harassed him about it and he’d grin. Never denying, but always saying he was off to the club for the weekend.

That night, I came home to find Sophie at the sink doing the dishes. She had headphones in and bounced her butt to the rhythm of some unheard pop song. A fire burned within me and I slunk up behind her and put my hands around her, went to reach for places I hadn’t ventured with her for some time.

She startled and pushed out of my arms. My heart skipped a stutter. “Oh, you're home, good,” she said mechanically. “Finish the dishes, I’m going to be late.”

“Late?” I asked.

“I’m going to the HOA board meeting. I’m trying to get on the committee so I can finally get solar panels approved.”

“We can’t afford solar panels.”

“We could qualify for one of those free programs.”

“They don’t do it here,” I said, hands still hovering in the empty air.

“It’ll help lower the electric bills since that’s what you’re always worried about.”

“But we don’t have money for the upfront.”

“I’m going to close on another sale probably tomorrow. They put down money to hold the car.”

“We should put that towards the credit cards. We’re almost at five thousand.”

“That can be with my next sale.”

I rubbed my forehead, another headache. “We can’t wait for another sale. It’s already the end of the month.”

Again the pursed lips, she thrust her hip to the side, one hand resting on it. She’d been doing that a lot since she started the gym thing. She took selfies in the mirror all the time. She even dropped God knows how much money on nice, long white painted fingernails. Her hair had curls and blonde highlights. I’m sure I’d find three, four, five hundred dollars in beauty upkeep on the next billing cycle. She was gorgeous, that was a fact, and my stomach tilted realizing how oblivious I’d been living together for so long.

“So, what are you saying, George?” Sophie asked venom on her lips.

“What about Cancun? What about Europe? You said you always wanted to go there. You said you wanted to finish the basement. You said you wanted a Tesla. But we keep spending money. We’re not saving money. You’re wasting our money.”

“You don’t want me to look like this?” she gestured to herself.

“I, well, yes I do, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“We wanted to travel, didn’t we?”

“Yes, and we will. My sales have gone up and I’m probably going to get a promotion at this rate. How about you? You’ve been doing the same lame-ass job for years now. You sit in that office and do the same thing over and over again.”

Tongue-tied, I waved my hand away, as though shooing away some child. “Just go to your stupid meeting.”

When she finally came home that night I was already in bed. She slipped in, silent as a cat, but it still woke my restless mind. Fire still lapping within, I scooted over and tried again. Perhaps a massage in just the right place. But she pushed my hand away, sour. “I have a headache. I’m tired.” I turned over, rejected, body tugging between letdown and pulsating agitation.

The following morning, we didn’t talk. She bounced around the house after her TikTok post and treated me as though I were some annoying roommate. I went into my office and simply slunk into my seat, nearly folded over, frowned deeply, and stared at my keyboard until Timothy called me because I was late for a Zoom call.

A couple of months later, due to an unkempt yard and a missed mortgage payment, I received a letter from the HOA tendering an eviction notice plus a fifty-per-day fine if the yard was unchanged from the posted date. Of course, the letter had supposedly been sent over a week ago. I went off to work, an in-office day, with an upset stomach and a sewing machine leg. I sat at my desk trying to block out Timothy’s loud, metrosexual dialogue with Cheryl across the way. They were fuming because Cheryl got stood up by a Tinder date.

“You show me that man, girl, and I’ll give him a piece of my mind. You don’t worry, you’re the best gal in the office. He isn’t good enough for you.”

Feeling sick, I dry heaved in the bathroom. Then I put in for a sick day and drove home early. I cruised along the highway staring at passing road signs as though they were passing revelations. Each red light, a lot of them, felt like I was stopping at life. Finally, I passed our gate and pulled into the driveway to find Sophie’s too-expensive BMW in the garage. Perhaps this was finally the time to tell her my thoughts. Perhaps it was finally the time to tell her if we didn’t get the spending under control perhaps, perhaps…

She was so beautiful, but I didn’t know her anymore.

I entered the house, quiet on the main floor. Her purse, some overpriced name brand I didn’t know, sat on the counter. An opened bottle of champagne sat next to the sink. The sticky golden liquid congealed to the bottle and surface from the initial froth of opening without caution.

I walked upstairs and heard noises in our bedroom. I entered and found my wife on top of some black dude. I should’ve been shocked to find her like this, but I wasn’t. No, no I wasn’t. I wasn't shocked that this dude was a shredded, slightly thinner version of Terry Crews. I wasn’t shocked to see her run her slender fingers, nails polished white, over his dark washboard abs and up his plateau pectorals. Nor that she tilted her chin back, lips parted, mouth open, gasping in ecstasy. No, no it wasn’t that at all. I was shocked about something completely different.

It was the three black, empty duffle bags next to the dresser. It was the shotgun propped against the wall next to the black bags. It was the two champagne glasses next to a handgun atop said dresser. It was the two clown masks from Spirit Halloween in the middle of the floor amidst articles of clothing trailing to the bed. Yes, it was that she and this partner engaged on our bed blanketed in an inch-thick layer of thousands of hundred dollar bills. Crumpled, bent, kicked around, and tousled with the bedsheets. Spilled onto the floor nonetheless.

I just stood there, mouth open, dumb expression working backward too slow. The Instagram, the TikTok gym-going craze, running, dieting. The sales successes. The sales retreat trip. The slow, inevitable slip of our intimacies.

Eventually, her lover saw me in the doorway. He stopped. It took her time to realize it as well. She jumped, startled, and my wife pulled the bed sheets up to her collar. Wrinkled bills avalanched down, more slipping off the bedside to the floor.

“George,” she breathed, still coming off her dopamine high.

The two stared at me as I looked from the mounds of cash to them and back again. I kind of twitched weirdly and walked into the room, my limbs acting disjointed from my thoughts. Heart pounding in my chest I picked the handgun up from the dresser and pointed it at them.

“George!” Sophie gasped.

Her lover shot his arms up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, come on, let’s talk about this.” His voice was deep and black and rich like honey. My skin prickled.

The gun barrel shook. Do I know how to use a gun? Of course I do. Sure I’ve only touched one two or three times in my life, but I’m a born and bred American with lead in my veins. Of course I knew how to use one.

The clock on the wall spun its little red hand in a half circle before I made up my mind.

“Give me some,” I said, hands still shaking.

They eyed each other.

Sweat beaded on my forehead.

“George,” Sophie said again.

“No, I get it. It, it was a long time coming.”

“Look…” her lover started.

“Don’t talk,” I said and moved the gun toward him. His back straightened.

She said nothing.

“I’m taking a bag. I don’t care about the rest.”

Eventually, without consulting the other guy, Sophie nodded. “Okay.”

I grabbed the bag and its strap snagged on the shotgun. The metal contraption clattered to the floor and I nearly jumped out of the room. Her lover shifted but I righted the handgun in time. I stepped forward and scooped a good armful of the cash into the bag. I didn’t count. I didn’t care. I just stuffed the disheveled bills into the duffle and backed away.

I looked into her eyes one more time. I didn’t even recognize her. She wore make-up. Her hair curled in waves. Her lips were full of youth and vigor she hadn’t shared with me since, since our first year together when I was a couple of waist sizes thinner. When we were young, dumb, and in college. An ache almost formed in my heart until I tested the weight of the new bulging duffle.

I ran down the stairs out of the room and threw the bag into the Corolla. I started the engine, timing belt squealing, and backed out of the driveway and barely had the sense to drive like a sane person.

As I turned the corner, red and blue lights reflected on suburban window homes, and two, three, four cop cars passed me and braked, tires screeching, in front of our house. I turned the corner before I saw anything further and sped out of town, out of city.

Sophie and her lover were later arrested and persecuted on multiple accounts of armed robbery. In fact, they had some notoriety among news channels--a four-person team with perfect getaways. Their most recent job led to one too many mistakes and by interrogating one of their members they located all but one team member, who ghosted. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t come looking for me with the money. Perhaps they thought they took the rest. The cops did ask me, but I told them Sophie and I had been separated a while. I was downtown living in a crummy apartment I paid for in cash. HOA claimed the house, supposedly bought it for a few bucks, and I had to go bankrupt on the loan. Not that I cared. Stuffed under my mattress were still piles and piles of uncounted bills and a printed photo of Sophie and me on our honeymoon, both slim-waisted, beaming smiles, her white, self-painted fingernails resting tenderly on my chest accentuating a glimmering wedding ring. Behind us, a Hawaiian waterfall cascaded down a forested cliffside. Our eyes glinted with the promise to each other that we’d travel many more islands, countries, and adventures arm-in-arm.