She sighed and rolled her eyes. She thought it was subtle but enough to get the point across. He punched the pillow next to her head then locked himself in the bathroom. It was going to end up in another fight. He knew it, she knew it.
She banged her head against the pillow. "Damn." His cum was smeared over her cunt and close to leaking onto the bed. She put her pajamas back on that lay in a pile on the floor and trudged to the bathroom door. "Keith...please..." she whined like a puppy wanting to be let in.
"What?"
"I'm sorry I made you mad. It's just that..."
The door flew open. "What? You can't get off and that's my problem?"
"Well, if you last longer..."
It was his turn to roll his eyes. "I'm fine! It's you and your fucking fantasies. You don't share them and blame me for your unhappiness. I can't keep up with you. Guess what, sweetheart, you can spend all the time you want on your computer reading smut and getting off from your videos." He pushed his way around her to get back into the bedroom. "Or better, you can find someone else to always put you first in sex. I'm done." The duffle bag came out from under the bed. It was the dreaded sign that the argument was taken too far. She was the one who usually packed her things in a rage then came home sulking two hours later.
"No...please..."
"Don't bother begging." He rummaged through the dresser drawers and threw random pieces of clothing into the bag.
"I need you. You have no idea what I'm going through!"
He flung the closet doors open and grabbed several shirts, one of them he put on. "You're right. I don't." He snatched his jeans and shoes from the floor and finished dressing. "And I'm sorry you're bipolar is acting up. Another thing I can't take anymore..." The last possessions he packed were his laptop and power cord.
Tears of resentment streamed down her face. "This IS a part of my illness."
"If I hear one more excuse about your damn illness..."
"Fuck! I'm a sex addict!" He stopped zipping his bag and stared at her. Her voice dropped to a hushed tone. "I was diagnosed yesterday."
The disgust on his face broke her heart before his harsh words did. "Then I really can't be with you. Addicts don't care about their loved ones, just their addiction." He flinched at the word 'addiction.'
She saw the reawakening of painful memories in his eyes as he stared at her, seeing someone else. "I'm not like your mother was. I care about you. I love you." She moved close to hold his hands. "We can get through this together."
He recoiled and put the bag on his shoulder. "No, I don't want to." Before the tears could fall from his eyes, he bolted from the room. "The wedding's off."
There was no chance even if she tried to chase him. She fell to the floor and listened to his car drive away.
~~~~~
When she was depressed, she clung onto his pillow and wept. In an instant, she would be up and pacing the house. The mania lasted no more than a few hours. Then, she would collapse back in bed and watch her phone. Every hour, she would call him. Sometimes twice an hour. She left tearful voicemails or ones of indecipherable screaming. She drank and brought out the razor blades. But the blade only hovered over her wrist, never drawing blood.
Four days after he left, she woke up but didn't reach for the phone. Her forearm lay across her throbbing head. She rubbed her scalp and felt her greasy hair. It was a debate for which one first: a shower or breakfast. Her rancid hair and the dirt under her fingernails convinced her that getting clean was the most important concern at the moment.
The hot water calmed her mind and slowed it enough for her to think clearly. She scrubbed off the filth of her dysfunctional and dependent life and stepped out of the shower as a brave and capable woman.
She fixed herself a bowl of cereal, the kind with cartoon mascots on the box, and grabbed a legal pad. She made plans and back-up plans for living arrangements. She budgeted her disability income and created a list of what possessions were technically hers, even though she was willing to give up anything to avoid a fight with Keith.
When she was done she opened the blinds to all the windows, illuminating the dreariness inside. It was a beautiful and sunny summer day. She felt the need to be caressed by the sun's warming rays for at least a few minutes. The trashcans were overflowing and the mail needed to be brought in. It was a good enough excuse to get some fresh air. She carried the trash outside and collected the mail that was almost falling out of the box. As she walked back, she carefully shuffled through the ads and envelopes. Nothing needed to be opened right away. She dumped it on a stand in the entryway.
Her next task made her hesitate. She stood in front of the door, biting her lip and whimpering. Reluctantly, she poured a glass of milk and went to her nightstand where she kept her pills. The four bottles stood waiting for her after several days of being ignored. As much as she hated the reminder that she was sick, she knew their reason was to make her better. She took the morning dosage and rinsed out the glass.
She went to her desk and turned the computer on. Instead of checking her favorite dirty story and porn websites for new content, she went straight to her private blog. The last entry was two months ago, the day they were engaged. She clicked the 'new post' button and started typing. A half an hour later, she read over the apologetic love letter to Keith. She wrote about her willingness to get better, her sexual fantasies, how she improved over the past year, and why she wanted to be his wife. She titled it: 'To my sweet husband who never will be.'
For the first time that day she broke down. With her face hidden in her hands, she whispered, "Keep moving." She clicked 'publish' and started to clean the house. After a couple hours of work, she packed her bags and got ready to leave the next day. Sleep came quicker to her that night.
~~~~~
When it went to voicemail, she moaned remembering her parents were vacationing in Hawaii and wouldn't be back until the next week. Scowling, she called her sister, her back-up plan. Even though it was a love-hate relationship with her, she was desperate. Her sister was sympathetic and invited Lena to stay with her.
She ended the call and studied the gleaming diamond on her hand. It was worth rent money if she chose to sell it. But she worked it off her finger and placed it on the kitchen counter for him to find it. She juggled the phone, picked it up and set it down. "Get it done and over with." She pressed the call button next to his number. As it rang, she rehearsed the simple, emotionless message she would leave. But the third ring was interrupted.
"Lena?" There was undeniable fear in his voice. The shock left her silent. "Lena, you there?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm here." The only sound on his end was a few shuddered sighs. "I just wanna..." She sniffled as softly as she could. "I just wanna let you know that I'll be out of the house by this afternoon. Ok, umm, bye."
She heard a "Wait!" as she took the phone from her ear.
"I'm here," she said as she quickly replaced it.
"We need to talk. I'm coming home."
A smile of hope broke through her tears. "Alright."
"Lena?"
"Yeah?"
"Please tell me you didn't hurt yourself."
"I didn't."
"I was scared that..." He sighed. "We'll talk when I get home. Bye."
"Bye." She set the phone down and paced around the dining table for twenty minutes until the front door opened. She went to the living room but didn't rush to him. He shut the door and dropped his bag. He took off his sunglasses; his eyes were red and swollen. They stared at each other, his hands nervously juggled his keys, her hands repeatedly straightened her shirt and brushed her hair behind her ears.
He nodded to the couch. "Let's sit." They didn't embrace or even touch each other and sat apart as if strangers. "I'm sorry I left without talking about it."
"You had a reason to leave."
"I was angry and I'm sorry I didn't call. I just didn't want to admit that I was an asshole. And I started feeling guilty and was waiting for a call..." He swallowed and hid his face. "For someone to call to tell me that you killed yourself." The thought created fresh tears. He brushed his hand under his eyes. "You promise you didn't hurt yourself?"
She stuck out her unmarked forearms. "Promise."
"Sleeping pills?" She shook her head. "You look good. You look ok."
"I managed. But not at first."
"Have you been taking your meds?"
She cringed. "Only yesterday and this morning."
"Are you manic?"
"I don't think I am."
"Depressed? Wanting to kill yourself?"
As rough as his interrogation, she stayed strong. "Depressed, yes. Suicidal, no." She could tell in his eyes that he believed her.
He broke away from her gaze and observed the room. "It looks nice in here." Her head dropped, hiding a blush from a rare compliment. "I'm gonna get something to drink." He went to the kitchen and took a glass from the cabinet. As he set it down on the counter, he noticed the ring.
"Fuck," he whispered. He carried it in his palm to the living room. "You're ready to let me go? You've given up already?" He thrust his open hand in front of her face.
"No! Of course not! I didn't want to seem needy. You don't deserve me. I realize that. I couldn't hold you back."
"No, baby, don't say that. I can't live without you, even how cliché that is." He sat and put his arms around her. "We'll get through this, just..." He pressed the ring into her hand. "Don't give up."
Minutes later, their sweaty, naked bodies were crushed together on the floor. His slow thrusts teased her at first, but when they continually hit the right angle, she cried out each time he pushed into her. Her eyes rolled back as her legs quivered from an overdue orgasm. Her calves gripped his sides, pulling him in closer to her. He responded by pressing his chest tightly against her breasts. He laid his head next to her; his warm, shuddered breath sighed in her ear. She felt his muscles tightened up against her as he expelled an immense load into her saturated pussy. He lay next to her and petted her head which lay on his chest.
"Lena?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. I wish it could always be like this."
