Her husband has been adding women to his Facebook. The kind of women considered whores when they were in high school and still appeared to seem so. Selfishly, her husband likes their 100s of half-naked photos and leaves them risqué—no, lewd—comments, passing by on homepage tickers everywhere.
The children see and become uncomfortable around him.
His parents see and become uncomfortable around her.
It’s been too long since she’s been a comfort to herself.
She starts moving her stuff into the guest bedroom. Her favourite blue sweater on Tuesday. Tubes of her lipstick on Wednesday. A bookshelf by Saturday. He is happy because he thinks books are ugly décor, so he notices that, but nothing else. She notices that the purple shade she painted the guest room years ago doesn’t look good at any time of the day, so she covers the walls with more of her bookcases and buys two new lamps and a dark green blanket for the bed.
28 days later, Lyndsay officially moves out.
Her husband doesn’t notice for a further 36 days. She has always went to bed after him and always been up before him. When he catches her, he foolishly thinks that this is her first night away from him. “Oh, shut up and go to bed,” she says to him. And she fucking actually goes back to reading some stupid book. “You’re a bitch,” he says, knocking the Richard Yates novel from her hands and onto the floor. He glances quickly at the title. “Some sort of feminist bullshit? Maybe you better move there,” he boils, pointing his finger in her face. She crinkles up her eyes and nose and shakes her head back at him in mock amazement. “You truly are an idiot, aren't you” she asks, she sighs. “Just go to bed. Please.”
Now the kids are uncomfortable around her. She moves a few bookcases back out of the room and buys a can of paint and a new set of curtains and makes the room hers. She asks the kids if they would like the same, a new look for their rooms and yes, they do very much, thank you. “Everyone needs their own room to do whatever they want with,” she tells them, when he daughter picks the brightest colour of pink the Home Hardware has. The kids start to see nothing else has changed—well, except for maybe the x-rated movie cases that Jay had seen in his father’s room that one day while he was rooting for loose change—yep, everyone is getting on the same. The same people doing the same chores. Everyone still eating dinner and watching Jeopardy together most nights. The everyday is like every day else, so they too slip into the new normal. Besides, who cares? They’re moving out in a few years anyway.
The children see and become uncomfortable around him.
His parents see and become uncomfortable around her.
It’s been too long since she’s been a comfort to herself.
She starts moving her stuff into the guest bedroom. Her favourite blue sweater on Tuesday. Tubes of her lipstick on Wednesday. A bookshelf by Saturday. He is happy because he thinks books are ugly décor, so he notices that, but nothing else. She notices that the purple shade she painted the guest room years ago doesn’t look good at any time of the day, so she covers the walls with more of her bookcases and buys two new lamps and a dark green blanket for the bed.
28 days later, Lyndsay officially moves out.
Her husband doesn’t notice for a further 36 days. She has always went to bed after him and always been up before him. When he catches her, he foolishly thinks that this is her first night away from him. “Oh, shut up and go to bed,” she says to him. And she fucking actually goes back to reading some stupid book. “You’re a bitch,” he says, knocking the Richard Yates novel from her hands and onto the floor. He glances quickly at the title. “Some sort of feminist bullshit? Maybe you better move there,” he boils, pointing his finger in her face. She crinkles up her eyes and nose and shakes her head back at him in mock amazement. “You truly are an idiot, aren't you” she asks, she sighs. “Just go to bed. Please.”
Now the kids are uncomfortable around her. She moves a few bookcases back out of the room and buys a can of paint and a new set of curtains and makes the room hers. She asks the kids if they would like the same, a new look for their rooms and yes, they do very much, thank you. “Everyone needs their own room to do whatever they want with,” she tells them, when he daughter picks the brightest colour of pink the Home Hardware has. The kids start to see nothing else has changed—well, except for maybe the x-rated movie cases that Jay had seen in his father’s room that one day while he was rooting for loose change—yep, everyone is getting on the same. The same people doing the same chores. Everyone still eating dinner and watching Jeopardy together most nights. The everyday is like every day else, so they too slip into the new normal. Besides, who cares? They’re moving out in a few years anyway.
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