As promised, here is a new excerpt from my work-in-progress. I hope you enjoy it. It’s an unusual scene. The style is different than usual and that’s on purpose. See what you think of it and also tell me what you think the intended purpose is and whether I achieved it. I’d love it if you answer honestly.

I don’t shower. I just take off my soggy, sodden clothes, leave them on the floor in the doorway, and go straight to bed. I don’t sleep. I just rub my throbbing hand and replay the events of the last few hours over and over. At first, it plays unedited on a loop. But eventually, my fevered brain starts changing what I said, trying out different approaches, knowing they wouldn’t have changed anything, but also knowing beyond contradiction they would have. I convince myself the right combination of words could have made her see the foolishness of leaving. But then, through no conscious effort on my part, the dialogue starts to morph again, this time to prove just how foolish she would have been to stay. To stay with me would be the worst possible decision she could ever have made. Eventually, I’m wondering how she was stupid enough to marry me in the first place. For the first time in a long while, that little voice of self-loathing begins to whisper in my ear.  

After some time, I have no idea how much, I fall asleep. I dream she comes in and crawls in bed with me, kissing me gently on the cheek. I embrace her, taking in the intoxicating scent of her hair, but wake to find I’m holding her pillow. I squeeze it tightly and take another deep breath of her. I put it back in its place, though, thinking I don’t want to smell it all up, so I’ll have to ration it. No telling if she’ll be back. When! No, if. She’s probably already figured out marrying me was the mistake of a lifetime and is moving on with her life.

I fall asleep again for a while. When I awake, the first thing I notice is it’s dark outside. The second thing is that I have to pee. Really badly. I don’t move, allowing the pain to punish me for a minute. When I decide it’s either go now or wet the bed, I up, the stinging more insistent than I’m expecting. A little leaks out. Who cares? I do, I guess. I stop it long enough to get to the toilet. As the cataract ebbs, I get the shiver-me-timbers and some misses the toilet. Who cares? I do, I guess. I get some toilet paper and wipe it up before flushing. I have to use my right hand, because my left, normally my dominant, is still sore and swollen, so I struggle and almost fall over. My head swims when I stand. Then I go to change my underwear. I stop, my briefs still pooled around my feet. I should take a shower. But I don’t want to. I want to lie down. I feel like I’m wearing a full body lead lined suit. But I should shower. I’m a dirty mess. Who cares? I do, I guess. Not much, but I do. So, I take a shower. Well, first, I stand in the shower in water that feels like it might melt my flesh. Just like she likes it. When the hot water starts to run out, I wash my hair and then body. I forgot a washcloth, so I just use my good hand and body wash. I could get a washcloth from under the sink if I wanted to, but I can’t want to, so I don’t. I do dry off, though it’s with Dee’s towel. It smells like her too. I want to cry, or at least I feel like I should want to. It’s almost like I’m outside of me observing, detached. I know what I should be feeling, but something is blocking the emotions, like an impenetrable force field. Maybe some part of me knows once they come, they won’t leave for a while. I go back to bed. I don’t sleep for a long time. I stare at my phone, the text message app open to her string. I wait for a message to appear. I wait for the courage to hit send on the message I’ve typed: “I love you. I’m sorry. Please come home.” The courage doesn’t come. I fall asleep, the phone still in my hand, my head on her pillow.