*
Jacky doesn’t wake her up when he leaves for work the next morning, so it’s almost noon before she gets up, smeary-eyed and groggy. She slept like the dead, but she’s still exhausted. She pads into the kitchen, turns on the coffee machine, and watches it slowly drip into the pot, not noticing that her robe is untied and open, and that she’s naked beneath, or that she’s swiveling her hips back and forth, tufts of her pubic hair skimming the lip of the counter. And she certainly doesn’t notice the dried blood on her thighs.
She thinks her husband might’ve raped her. Or not. Can that even happen? She’s not sure.
She slops the coffee over the mug’s rim when she pours, burning the back of her hand. She could leave Jacky. Ask for a divorce. Those things happen. She doesn’t know any women who’ve actually left their husbands, but she’s seen it on TV, knows it’s possible. All day she thinks about this, about leaving, and she gets a suitcase out of the hallway closet and puts a few things in—just some panties and blouses, a few pairs of slacks. If she packed all her clothes, she thinks, that means she’d made up her mind, that she was ready to go.
But she’s still not sure.
Later that night, when she’s sitting across from Jacky at the dinner table, watching him shovel food in his mouth, she decides she has to say something. That’s what women are supposed to do, aren’t they? Speak their minds? Get their feelings out in the open? She thinks she might’ve read that tidbit of wisdom in a magazine somewhere—probably in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. Clear the air, it said. Work things out. Or be a modern woman, and leave. She didn’t need a man who’d treat her badly, the magazine had said.
“About last night—” she starts, but Jacky won’t let her finish, because he suddenly has an awful lot to say, even though he hasn’t said a word since sitting down.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says quickly, standing up and coming around the table to her. She flinches away when he tries to hold her, and she sees the pain in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. We haven’t been together for so long, and I’ve been wanting you so badly.”
I guess he does it because he loves me so much, her mother had said.
“I’ll move into the guest room until I find somewhere else to live,” he says. “I won’t touch you again.”
“I don’t want you to do that,” Gloria says. This is not going the way she thought it would, not at all. It’s one thing if she plans on divorcing him, but it’s something completely different if he’s trying to leave her. How could he do this? He’s in the wrong, after all. Isn’t he? Isn’t he?
“I don’t think you’re attracted to me anymore,” Jacky says. He looks ready to cry. “If there’s something wrong with me, if you don’t want to be with me, I understand. There’re a lot of men out there—”
“I never said anything like that.”
“But you didn’t enjoy it last night.”
“I never said that.” She can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. The lies. But is she lying, telling him that she enjoyed his crushing weight on her body, the sandpaper-pain as he forced his way between her legs? She doesn’t know. It’s like she can’t remember anything anymore, and the only thing she feels is an overpowering need to hold on. She had all sorts of intentions, but they’ve jumped ship. “When did I say that?”
“I guess you didn’t,” Jacky says slowly. “But you’ve been so cold to me lately, I thought—”
“How about you don’t assume anything about me,” she snaps, scooping more green beans out of the bowl and thumping them down on his plate. “I’ve got my own mind, and if I don’t like something I’ll let you know.”
“All right, then,” he says. “You’ll let me know.”
“I’ll let you know,” she says firmly, and then says it again. She remembers the half-packed suitcase upstairs, excuses herself from the table, and goes up. She doesn’t bother taking out the clothes but sticks the suitcase back in the closet, quietly, so Jacky won’t know what she’s doing, so he’ll never know.
*
The next day Jacky brings her flowers, and he keeps doing it, a new bouquet every few days. He buys whatever’s in season—daisies in the spring, mums in the fall. Carnations all year long. Tall, fresh flowers, their heavy heads drooping over the sides of a glass vase, their delicate stems barely able to hold them upright.