Unreachable Hand
Chapter 1
My husband, a man who’d always avoided
physical intimacy with me, displayed a
photograph at his hundredth photography
exhibition. It was an art photo of him.
embracing another woman.
Both were completely nude, intertwined in the
frame without a shred of modesty.
There was even a matching tattoo on her
inner thigh, identical to his.
Before the guests, he spoke eloquently:
“This is my first attempt at bold, avant–garde
art, and I especially want to thank Jessica for
making such a huge sacrifice for my
exhibition.”
“I hope we’ll have more opportunities to
collaborate in the future.”
Instead of the usual screaming match, I
remained calm.
I silently canceled our anniversary dinner
reservation.
Four years of neglect. I didn’t want to cling to
this anymore.
1
Soon, my phone buzzed with a cancellation
confirmation.
I took one last look at the stage.
John still held hands with Jessica, laughing
and chatting with the guests.
He had severe OCD; he couldn’t stand
physical contact with anyone.
Not even his wife.
–
Kissing, hugging — the most ordinary things.
They were utterly unattainable for me.
Yet, for a woman he’d known less than three
months, he broke his own rules.
The centerpiece of this hundredth exhibition,
originally, was to be a close–up photo of John
and me holding hands.
From our courtship to our marriage.
It was the first time he’d agreed to remove
his gloves and have real physical contact with
- me.
With anticipation, the staff removed the dust
cover from the frame.
But what was revealed was a highly explicit
photograph.
John and Jessica, naked, their bodies pressed
tightly together.
Their bodies barely concealed their private
parts.
A nearly transparent plastic film covered them
both.
The image was electrifying, yet aesthetically
pleasing.
In my shock, I noticed a prominent tattoo on
Jessica’s inner thigh.
It was identical to the one on John’s
abdomen.
<
During his speech, he falsely claimed the
photograph was a bold artistic challenge and
a form of self–healing for his obsessive-
compulsive disorder.
John shed tears during his speech.
He thanked Jessica for guiding and helping
him over the past few months, allowing him to
overcome his anxieties and fears.
I couldn’t accept such a ridiculous excuse.
To support John, I quit my high–paying job.
I became a stay–at–home wife.
I cleaned the sheets, curtains, and clothes
daily.
Even the tableware was labeled to avoid
confusion.
After more than four years of accommodating
him, I was exhausted.
