2
Jesse seemed furious. He pursed his lips, his
brow furrowed, staring at me for a long time,
then said nothing and walked away.
I closed the door and lay down on the soft
bed.
The living room light shone through the crack
under the door. I got up to turn it off, but
found Jesse at his computer, furiously typing.
The cold white light cast a distance between
- us.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
He turned to me, coldly asking, “Why aren’t
you asleep yet? Regretting it?”
I calmly went to the kitchen for water,
grabbing him a bottle of coffee from the
fridge.
He looked at the coffee skeptically, took a
sip, and his eyebrows shot up.
“Sarah, what are you doing?”
<
He clearly didn’t like coffee.
I took a sip of my water. “To wake you up,” I
said.
He glared. “I’m already awake enough!”
I smiled. “Good. I thought you were living in a
dream world, saying things like that.”
He remained silent.
I realized he was avoiding an argument.
Was he afraid I’d change my mind? I didn’t
remember what Jesse was like before,
perhaps full of life, perhaps quiet and
reserved.
But certainly not this.
My annoyance with Jesse continued into the next morning, on the drive to the courthouse. I woke up early with low blood sugar and slept against the car seat. Jesse, for some reason, felt the need to recount our history.
He talked from the moment I started chasing
him to our marriage, to renovating the house
<
-an endless stream of words.
My head ached. “You’re such a good
storyteller; why don’t you tell me how you met
your other woman?”
He shut up.
But he also admitted to having fallen for
someone else.
I listened to his version of our story.
In his account, I adored him, lowering myself
to worship him.
Without the rose–tinted glasses of memory, I
saw how irritating he truly was.
