The cellphone ringing on a deadline day: but it's a regular enough call, so I pick it anyway.
It's a pleasant surprise, an old colleague from the newspaper I worked with, he's calling to say Hi, he said. So he said hi, and I said hi, and I made my small talk and then I, said, Ok, need to go, so bye.
That's when he stalls, and there's a lull in his voice, I know he's got something to say.
How are things with you and him he says, you guys doing okay? It's the regular comment most married women get, so I say ok. But there's more to come.
I've heard you guys split, he says, is it true? Hahaha, I laugh, 'I wish.' But the concern in his voice just won't go away.
Why're you asking me this, I said. Well I heard it from someone at work, he says, and all those days of fighting and door-slamming and the despaired sighs come flashing back, sweating my nape, wetting my eyes. It's bad, but gosh, how did the world come to know?
No way, and soon I'm rubbishing talks of strife, joking about Nino's antics in life, talking of life and budgets and wives.
How often did I want to run away? Twice, already, this week. None the week before, a dozen times before that. But today I collect my coterie of wounds around me, covering it with my arms and shoulders and elbows, away from everyone else, who must please remember, I'm still the happily married lady.
3 hours ago