Cover Photo: image by jonny clow via unsplash
image by jonny clow via unsplash

Missing

the night he did not come home

It all seemed very wrong. Martin had such a strong work ethic - he’d have to be dead before missing work.

I decided there were four reasons  Martin did not come home: (1) critically injured or dead; (2) fucking some other girl; (3) careless and air-headed - just lost track of time; (4) not coming back because he doesn't fucking feel like it. None of these options appealed to me, though I must confess, I hoped for the first option because it would eliminate the very real possibility that Martin did not want to come home to me. Wow, did you just go there? Yes, I believed I'd rather face his death than receive his rejection. How do you even pass for human?

how could you do this to me?

 I indulged my rage, of course. I found all the cigarettes Martin had stashed around the house, and I cut them up. Not just in half,  in small pieces that he couldn't easily patch together. Then I spread the mangled tobacco sticks across his side of the bed. As I studied my handiwork, I giggled out loud. I imagined Martin, sitting on the sofa, smoking a patched-up cigarette. I wondered if he’d patch these. Or, maybe, he'd just disembowel the remains and re-roll the tobacco. Yes, he’d definitely do that. Pathological smoker and recycling freak that he was, he’d definitely do that. And so I giggled out loud, at length, as thought I’d gotten some kind of bizarre revenge. It felt good.

I fell asleep just after 4 am on the red velvet couch, and woke up  1 hour and 45 minutes later so as to wake my truant husband up to go to work. As he walked out the door, about a half-hour later, I stopped him.

run away. I fantasized about going to Winnipeg to see my parents. Just like that, going without saying anything. You can’t afford it, remember? Phffft! Besides, it seemed like an example of the behaviour - Martin’s -  I had only just decidedly found unacceptable and form of torment. Which is likely why taking such action appealed to me, I suppose. Strike back.

Roxanne is a writer and artist based in Vancouver, where she lives with her orange tabby cat, Ginger Baker and a menagerie of characters. 

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