I hear the sound of silence.


Nothing’s getting done, neither of us is in any great hurry; I’m ready to go and she’s taking her sweet time in putting her dress on. I know this is part of her plan and I’d expected it, but I suppose something in me was just willing her to take the situation calmly.

In other words, force a smile and look gracious.



I guess I wouldn’t be able to handle it, either, if I were forced into her situation. She thinks I don’t understand it, but the truth is, I understand all too well, I just choose to ignore it for my own, perhaps selfish, benefit.

I sigh and place my face in my hands, willing myself not to check the time. I know the answer is already ‘late’ and right now, that has to be enough. I want to keep my marriage.

Marriage. The word still doesn’t settle completely in my mind, and it triggers an unwanted smile.  I couldn’t imagine ever finding a more perfect woman, so it’s my appreciativeness for my wife’s fighting spirit that I’m trying desperately hard to keep in mind at this moment.

We’ve been together a year now, and the first three hundred and sixty four days have been nothing but beautiful in every sense of the word. Day three hundred and sixty five is proving to be a living hell.

I’ll admit it: I was lacking my usual tact when I sprung the news on her, but time and circumstance weren’t exactly on my side. It’s not my fault that today is our anniversary, she had a parent-teacher conference with the most annoyingly persistent man to ever grace the planet, and that these social events typically leave her feeling stranded and anxious.

Apparently, it IS my fault that I said yes, but I didn’t want to. However, I’m not Stephen King, so when my publisher wants me to do something, it’s definitely in my best interest to do so.



It’s seven thirty five. I don’t even care what time it is anymore. All I can think about is the disappointment in her eyes when she told me that nothing has changed.

I tried, to no avail, to explain that it was indeed different than before, but I know that, to her, twelve hours locked away in my study is really no different than twelve hours in my old office at work. The stress of deadlines is no different than that of endless amounts of paperwork. She knows I’m happier this way, and I know that makes her happy, but she’s right when she implies that I’ve been neglecting her.

This makes me sick. I reach for a cigarette and a lighter, but I find nothing but the centerpiece of our coffee table. She made me quit, and my emergency pack is cleverly hidden in our bedroom.



A quarter till. I am trying hard to be understanding, but enough is enough already. We have fifteen minutes to get to a location that’s an hour away.

I yell for her…once, twice, three times, and I receive no response and no Kaoru. It’s in agitation that I pick myself off of the sofa and walk towards the staircase, and it’s agitation that I find waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.

But she’s beautiful; there are very few occasions that I can remember that she’s been more stunning, and I stare at her for a few seconds, not quite sure what to do with myself. She stares back; nothing but a harsh coldness is locked away in the depths of her eyes. Perhaps it’s the instinct that whatever you can’t have is better than what you do have that came into play here, or the fact that I was struggling desperately hard with myself to find the words to apologize, or a mixture of both, but instead of reaching for the door handle, I reached for her hand and pulled her into my arms. It was with a firm resistance that she wordlessly denied me, but I’m stronger – in no time at all, I was burying my face in her hair.




“We’re late for your…thing.” She finally spits out, minutes later, slightly out of breath, leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs.

Her wrist in my hand, I turn my head over my shoulder and give her another look.

“Let them wait.”