NaNoWriMo - Day 1 (11/01/2005)
Vanessa
I roll out of bed to start my day and, as usual, Simon doesn’t notice. He never does. God, how did I ever let myself marry a man like him? And how will I ever find the courage to leave? Thank god we don’t have any kids.
It’s like he’s intentionally mocking the fact that I have to be at work at eight o’clock in the morning, while he, the office boy, doesn’t have to be in until nine. And he can get away with a quarter after, even nine-thirty, while I not only get dirty looks from the other people on my crew if I arrive so much as a minute late, I’ll also get docked 15 minutes pay. He just lies there, sleeping. I’m not sure what I expect of him, but it’s certainly more than this.
He snorts and rolls over as I walk past him and into the washroom. I turn on the water, hot, and let the bathroom fill up with steam. There’s something slightly … uneasy, about being in such a small room filled with so much fog. This is my morning ritual. This uneasiness pervades my morning—every morning—and I wonder why I’m always in such a bad mood. That and Simon’s bad breath are enough to drive any woman mad.
Stepping into the shower, the hot, near-scalding water pouring down my body, I feel a rush of excitement. This is another part of my morning ritual. From within the fog I imagine a handsome stranger in place of my drab n dreary husband. He gets out of bed, his strong, lithe body glistening and gleaming with sweat and condensation as he steps into the steamy room and joins me in the shower. His hands are strong as he pulls me towards him and I can feel him … down there.
“Vanessa,” he whispers in my ear, his breath sending shivers up and down my spine, “are you going to be much longer?”
Shit. This isn’t part of the routine. What the hell is he doing up already? And why is he interrupting my shower? I look at the water-proof clock hanging on the opposite wall, stuck to the tiles with one of those little suction-cups. I’ve been standing under the streaming water for nearly forty-five minutes. How did that happen?
“Almost finished,” I call back, not sure if he’s actually gotten out of bed yet, or if he’s just lying there, waiting until I’m done so he can jump out of bed and into the already hot washroom. Secretly hoping I’ve used up all the hot water, I rinse my hair a final time and reach around to turn the water off. Fuck him, I think, and just stand there, naked and dripping wet, feeling the air cool down.
I can hear Simon on the other side of the door … he is out of bed. There must be an office meeting or something. Either that or he’s got a woman on the side and he’s going to meet her for an early-morning tryst. Never happen, a small voice says in the back of my mind. He’s too lazy to have an affair. That Simon might actually have the nerve to start an affair, let alone the inclination to plan or the will to engage in one, hiding it from me all the while, is something I’ve thought about often—wished on, to tell the truth. It’s not like we have sex any more. It would be good for him to have an affair. Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty about my secret morning ritual, or the secret glances I take at the back-end of the newest member of our crew at work. Or the time I got drunk when Simon was out of town on business and called one of those phone-sex lines. If he had an affair then we could finally end this charade of a marriage. Why am I such a coward?
“Hey, you almost finished? I have to get in to the office a bit early today. I was thinking we could go out together?”
What has gotten into him? I step from the shower, dripping all over the floor and not really caring. “Almost finished,” I say again, hating him for making me repeat myself. I wrap up in a long, full-sized towel and push open the door to our bedroom.
He’s still lying in bed, just like every morning. But today is different. He’s awake and lying on top of the sheets, naked. When I say awake, I mean he’s fully … awake. He gives me a look, then glances down at himself, then back at me.
“Wanna … you know?”
I stand there looking at him. It’s not so much that he’s an ugly guy, but he’s let himself go. And my vision is coloured with the knowledge of our history together. When we first met, Simon was lithe and lean, just the way I like my men. But over the years he’s exercised less and less. The toned muscles turned a little flabby, and then disappeared altogether. I shouldn’t really complain, I guess, since I haven’t done a workout in over two years myself, but I haven’t lost it like he has.
“Well?”
He’s so pathetic I almost give in. Then I remember my gleaming interloper, and I laugh at him, without saying a word. It is not a kind laugh, and I can see the insult appear on his face, like the red, hand-shaped welt of a slap. He doesn’t say another word, but I can hear the thought that’s on his mind as if he's screamed it at me: ‘Bitch.’ And he’s right; I am a bitch, at least with him. But I deserve a better life than he’s giving me, and I believe he deserves it.
He rolls off the bed, trying hard—and failing miserably—to conceal himself, his arousal, as he moves. He is so pathetic, and I am embarrassed for him. You can be sure that my other man, the one that lives in my fantasy and who replaces Simon in all of the critical areas of my mind, would never skulk like Simon does. He would stand up tall, proud of himself and his body. He wouldn’t lie there and ask me if I want to ‘you know.’ He would take me in his strong arms and carry me to the bed. But not Simon.
He pulls the washroom door shut behind him and I hear the water turn on as I remove my towel and dry off. He’s probably masturbating in there, which is what I should have done, except he interrupted me. God, he’s pathetic.
He must be serious about leaving together, because the water turns off much more quickly than I thought it would. I quickly throw on some clothes so that we don’t have to both be naked in the same room, at the same time. It’s always so uncomfortable. Thinking this, I walk out of the bedroom as he opens the bathroom door.
“Why are you going in early?” I call as I leave the room. I don’t really care, but it’s polite to make conversation with your husband in the morning, and I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that he’s starting an affair. I wonder absently if I should have had sex with him.
“Some delegates are coming in from China this afternoon and there’s still a lot of preparation to do. Do you know how many things we do here—hand gestures, habits we’re not even aware of—that could seriously offend the Chinese?”
“No.”
“It’s just part of their culture, I guess, but you wouldn’t believe the number of things we need to be prepared for. We’ve even hired a consulting firm to come in and help us prepare. We’re putting the final touches on the office this morning.”
This is the most interesting conversation we’ve had in the last year. “Really? People actually get paid to do that?”
“Oh yea. Big bucks, too. We’ve already paid them almost $100,000 and we’ll end up paying about $175,000 by the end of it all.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”
“If we land this account we’ll make almost a billion dollars over the next ten years. I’d say it’s worth it, yea.”
Condescending bastard. Without even thinking about it I’ve thrown two bowls of cereal together and am just pouring the milk when he comes into the kitchen, fully dressed. I nod toward the table, which he takes to mean, ‘sit-down,’ when in fact I meant, ‘get some spoons, will you.’ He ambles over and gives me a light kiss on the cheek before moving to his seat and I am left with my own red slap-mark rising on my skin, and two bowls of cereal in my hands.
I drop them on the table, splattering a bit of milk as I go, and turn to get the spoons, but I grab forks instead.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just because I spilled a bit of milk doesn’t mean anything.”
He looks at the forks in my hands, then back up to my face, then back to the forks. I realise what he’s looking at and my blush deepens. I turn and put the forks back in the rack and replace them with spoons, which I drop on the table in a clatter. He keeps looking at me for a minute longer, then picks up the spoon and starts eating. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished every last bit, including licking the milk out of the bottom of the bowl. I’ve married a twelve year-old.
I drain the last of my own milk, tipping the bowl up and drinking from it like a glass. My grandmother used to scold me when I did that as a girl, and I take a certain amount of pleasure knowing that I can get away with it now. I picture her, up in heaven, or wherever you go when you die, rolling her eyes as she looks down on me, drinking from a bowl like a commoner. What she doesn’t realise, what she never realised, is that I am a commoner. My life wouldn’t have turned out like this if it weren’t true.
I grab both bowls and drop them into the sink. By the sound of it, one of them may have cracked, but I don’t have time to worry about it now. I glance at the clock on the stove and see that I’m running behind. I have to make up four minutes or I’ll get docked on my pay.
“I need to leave in about three minutes, if you’re still planning on leaving with me.”
He stands up from the table. “Great, I just need to brush my teeth.” He walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. There will be no sharing of the basin, not this morning or any other. Not if our lives depended on it.
Today’s word count: 1850
Cumulative word count: 1850
I roll out of bed to start my day and, as usual, Simon doesn’t notice. He never does. God, how did I ever let myself marry a man like him? And how will I ever find the courage to leave? Thank god we don’t have any kids.
It’s like he’s intentionally mocking the fact that I have to be at work at eight o’clock in the morning, while he, the office boy, doesn’t have to be in until nine. And he can get away with a quarter after, even nine-thirty, while I not only get dirty looks from the other people on my crew if I arrive so much as a minute late, I’ll also get docked 15 minutes pay. He just lies there, sleeping. I’m not sure what I expect of him, but it’s certainly more than this.
He snorts and rolls over as I walk past him and into the washroom. I turn on the water, hot, and let the bathroom fill up with steam. There’s something slightly … uneasy, about being in such a small room filled with so much fog. This is my morning ritual. This uneasiness pervades my morning—every morning—and I wonder why I’m always in such a bad mood. That and Simon’s bad breath are enough to drive any woman mad.
Stepping into the shower, the hot, near-scalding water pouring down my body, I feel a rush of excitement. This is another part of my morning ritual. From within the fog I imagine a handsome stranger in place of my drab n dreary husband. He gets out of bed, his strong, lithe body glistening and gleaming with sweat and condensation as he steps into the steamy room and joins me in the shower. His hands are strong as he pulls me towards him and I can feel him … down there.
“Vanessa,” he whispers in my ear, his breath sending shivers up and down my spine, “are you going to be much longer?”
Shit. This isn’t part of the routine. What the hell is he doing up already? And why is he interrupting my shower? I look at the water-proof clock hanging on the opposite wall, stuck to the tiles with one of those little suction-cups. I’ve been standing under the streaming water for nearly forty-five minutes. How did that happen?
“Almost finished,” I call back, not sure if he’s actually gotten out of bed yet, or if he’s just lying there, waiting until I’m done so he can jump out of bed and into the already hot washroom. Secretly hoping I’ve used up all the hot water, I rinse my hair a final time and reach around to turn the water off. Fuck him, I think, and just stand there, naked and dripping wet, feeling the air cool down.
I can hear Simon on the other side of the door … he is out of bed. There must be an office meeting or something. Either that or he’s got a woman on the side and he’s going to meet her for an early-morning tryst. Never happen, a small voice says in the back of my mind. He’s too lazy to have an affair. That Simon might actually have the nerve to start an affair, let alone the inclination to plan or the will to engage in one, hiding it from me all the while, is something I’ve thought about often—wished on, to tell the truth. It’s not like we have sex any more. It would be good for him to have an affair. Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty about my secret morning ritual, or the secret glances I take at the back-end of the newest member of our crew at work. Or the time I got drunk when Simon was out of town on business and called one of those phone-sex lines. If he had an affair then we could finally end this charade of a marriage. Why am I such a coward?
“Hey, you almost finished? I have to get in to the office a bit early today. I was thinking we could go out together?”
What has gotten into him? I step from the shower, dripping all over the floor and not really caring. “Almost finished,” I say again, hating him for making me repeat myself. I wrap up in a long, full-sized towel and push open the door to our bedroom.
He’s still lying in bed, just like every morning. But today is different. He’s awake and lying on top of the sheets, naked. When I say awake, I mean he’s fully … awake. He gives me a look, then glances down at himself, then back at me.
“Wanna … you know?”
I stand there looking at him. It’s not so much that he’s an ugly guy, but he’s let himself go. And my vision is coloured with the knowledge of our history together. When we first met, Simon was lithe and lean, just the way I like my men. But over the years he’s exercised less and less. The toned muscles turned a little flabby, and then disappeared altogether. I shouldn’t really complain, I guess, since I haven’t done a workout in over two years myself, but I haven’t lost it like he has.
“Well?”
He’s so pathetic I almost give in. Then I remember my gleaming interloper, and I laugh at him, without saying a word. It is not a kind laugh, and I can see the insult appear on his face, like the red, hand-shaped welt of a slap. He doesn’t say another word, but I can hear the thought that’s on his mind as if he's screamed it at me: ‘Bitch.’ And he’s right; I am a bitch, at least with him. But I deserve a better life than he’s giving me, and I believe he deserves it.
He rolls off the bed, trying hard—and failing miserably—to conceal himself, his arousal, as he moves. He is so pathetic, and I am embarrassed for him. You can be sure that my other man, the one that lives in my fantasy and who replaces Simon in all of the critical areas of my mind, would never skulk like Simon does. He would stand up tall, proud of himself and his body. He wouldn’t lie there and ask me if I want to ‘you know.’ He would take me in his strong arms and carry me to the bed. But not Simon.
He pulls the washroom door shut behind him and I hear the water turn on as I remove my towel and dry off. He’s probably masturbating in there, which is what I should have done, except he interrupted me. God, he’s pathetic.
He must be serious about leaving together, because the water turns off much more quickly than I thought it would. I quickly throw on some clothes so that we don’t have to both be naked in the same room, at the same time. It’s always so uncomfortable. Thinking this, I walk out of the bedroom as he opens the bathroom door.
“Why are you going in early?” I call as I leave the room. I don’t really care, but it’s polite to make conversation with your husband in the morning, and I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that he’s starting an affair. I wonder absently if I should have had sex with him.
“Some delegates are coming in from China this afternoon and there’s still a lot of preparation to do. Do you know how many things we do here—hand gestures, habits we’re not even aware of—that could seriously offend the Chinese?”
“No.”
“It’s just part of their culture, I guess, but you wouldn’t believe the number of things we need to be prepared for. We’ve even hired a consulting firm to come in and help us prepare. We’re putting the final touches on the office this morning.”
This is the most interesting conversation we’ve had in the last year. “Really? People actually get paid to do that?”
“Oh yea. Big bucks, too. We’ve already paid them almost $100,000 and we’ll end up paying about $175,000 by the end of it all.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”
“If we land this account we’ll make almost a billion dollars over the next ten years. I’d say it’s worth it, yea.”
Condescending bastard. Without even thinking about it I’ve thrown two bowls of cereal together and am just pouring the milk when he comes into the kitchen, fully dressed. I nod toward the table, which he takes to mean, ‘sit-down,’ when in fact I meant, ‘get some spoons, will you.’ He ambles over and gives me a light kiss on the cheek before moving to his seat and I am left with my own red slap-mark rising on my skin, and two bowls of cereal in my hands.
I drop them on the table, splattering a bit of milk as I go, and turn to get the spoons, but I grab forks instead.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just because I spilled a bit of milk doesn’t mean anything.”
He looks at the forks in my hands, then back up to my face, then back to the forks. I realise what he’s looking at and my blush deepens. I turn and put the forks back in the rack and replace them with spoons, which I drop on the table in a clatter. He keeps looking at me for a minute longer, then picks up the spoon and starts eating. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished every last bit, including licking the milk out of the bottom of the bowl. I’ve married a twelve year-old.
I drain the last of my own milk, tipping the bowl up and drinking from it like a glass. My grandmother used to scold me when I did that as a girl, and I take a certain amount of pleasure knowing that I can get away with it now. I picture her, up in heaven, or wherever you go when you die, rolling her eyes as she looks down on me, drinking from a bowl like a commoner. What she doesn’t realise, what she never realised, is that I am a commoner. My life wouldn’t have turned out like this if it weren’t true.
I grab both bowls and drop them into the sink. By the sound of it, one of them may have cracked, but I don’t have time to worry about it now. I glance at the clock on the stove and see that I’m running behind. I have to make up four minutes or I’ll get docked on my pay.
“I need to leave in about three minutes, if you’re still planning on leaving with me.”
He stands up from the table. “Great, I just need to brush my teeth.” He walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. There will be no sharing of the basin, not this morning or any other. Not if our lives depended on it.
Today’s word count: 1850
Cumulative word count: 1850
posted by Paul Keetch at 8:08 AM
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