As an industrial engineer for a pharmaceutical company, I found my job challenging at times, so weekends were a great respite away from all the shit work I found myself doing on occasion. Therefore, Mondays used to be my worst days. Going back to work after two days of fun and relaxation made them pretty shitty. Now? I loved them because being back in the office after having been home all weekend was a goddamned lifesaver.

I know. I sound like an asshole. But hear me out.

I’ll first say that my wife wasn’t nearly the trooper I thought she’d be after her transplant.

Hang on and I’ll fucking explain.

Granted, she’d had a new heart put into her body, and I didn’t have any issues with administering her meds or going for walks almost daily with her in Central Park. Eating more healthily was good for both of us, and doing all the housework and running all the errands was a piece of cake. Obviously, these weren’t the problems.

No, my grievance was that in the last year she’d complained nonstop. I get it. I honestly get it. She’d had major surgery, and she damned well deserved to gripe afterward. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m saying is, it seemed as if I couldn’t do anything right. When I did laundry, I folded everything wrong. When I made dinner, I didn’t steam the asparagus correctly. When I started the shower for her, it was either too hot or too cold. If I encouraged her and told her I was proud of her, she’d tell me I wasn’t. When I suggested we go see a movie or a play, then I was an idiot for thinking she’d want to go out. When I asked if she was bored and might’ve wanted to go back to work, she’d told me that was a “stupid fucking idea.”

Then because of the corticosteroids she’d taken early on, she’d gained a lot of weight which had always been a huge issue for her, but no matter how many times I told her I loved her and that she was beautiful, she’d tell me I was lying. If I brought her flowers, they weren’t the kind she liked. If I wanted to talk, she was busy watching one of her TV shows. Or if I wanted to take her out for dinner, it was another ridiculous idea because she had nothing to wear, and on and on and on.

That’s why Mondays had become a godsend.

If she’d only been discouraged/annoyed/upset about having surgery and recovering, I could’ve taken it. But the thing was, everything felt like a personal attack. Yeah, yeah. I’m a pussy. But, believe me, that shit gets old very fast.

I knew she was still harboring anger about Birdie, and who could blame her, because I, too, had remained angry at learning of the things Sonya had done. At the advice of my dad, I didn’t pry to get her to talk about all the bad shit so it just hung around; therefore, our relationship continued to suffer. 

In the beginning, when she’d come home three weeks after surgery, she’d seemed more willing to make us work, and the next month we’d started going to a marriage counselor. At that time, I’d been determined for things to get better, Sonya not so much, but I understood. I mean, fuck, when she’d needed me the most, I’d pretty much cheated on her, even though Birdie and I never slept together. But emotionally cheating was just as bad as physically cheating—Sonya and the counselor both let me know—which I already fucking knew.

After I’d acknowledged my mistake, the sessions had gone surprisingly well until the numerous, nameless men Sonya had fucked for drugs was brought up, and we’d hit another wall. Then the fact that we hadn’t had sex in eight months—and still counting—even after the doctor cleared her six weeks after surgery, also added to shit. Don’t think I didn’t try. I didn’t pressure her or anything, but she didn’t even want my mouth anywhere on her. When I’d go to kiss her goodbye in the mornings or hello in the evenings, she’d turn her face so that I only got her cheek. Every single goddamned time.

At the advice of our counselor, we’d tried communicating our feelings better and giving each other light touches to maybe get the spark going again—which went on for about a week—before Sonya had said it was dumb and we’d stopped. After that, she’d grudgingly continued going to counseling with me for six more months until telling me she’d had enough.

That was also the same night she’d announced that she didn’t love me anymore and that we never should’ve gotten married.

That had stung, but instead of admitting defeat, again, at the advice of my father—who’d meant well because he and my mom had a great marriage but Mom also wasn’t a drug addict—I’d sucked it up and forged ahead thinking she’d just been blowing off steam.

And now, as I’ve said, I was stuck and really didn’t know what else to do.

So there I sat in my office that Monday morning, my emotions at war with thinking I was happy to be back at work, but also aggravated that Sonya hadn’t said one fucking word to me the entire weekend. Her aunt and uncle had come to visit for New Year’s, and although they’d kept me involved in the conversation, Sonya hadn’t deigned to even acknowledge my presence. Nor had she kissed me back at midnight, which had pissed me off.

My hand rested on my phone as I contemplated calling her, making her have to talk to me. Dick move, yeah, but I’d had it.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, picking up the phone and dialing her cell.

“Hey,” she answered halfheartedly.

“Hey. I was just checking to see if Gina and Roger got off okay?”

“Yes. They left about thirty minutes ago.” I heard her sigh as if she were already bored with our conversation.

“Look, Sonya. I don’t know what else to do—”

Another sigh.

I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and finger. “Sonya, what do you want?”

A third sigh. “I don’t want anything, Beck.” She paused before continuing. “No, I take that back. I—I want to be…free.”

Clenching my teeth, I asked, “And what does ‘free’ mean?”

Another fucking sigh. “I’ve told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I—I want my life back.”

She made it sound as if I’d imprisoned her. Jesus.

“And what does that mean to you?” I ground out wondering if she meant she wanted to go back to the drugs and partying and getting so fucked up she didn’t know how many guys she was screwing to get the shit.

I heard her start to softly cry. “I’m sorry, Beck.”

“About?”

“I—I’m just sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re sorry for, Sonya.”

I heard her mutter out a “God!” and knew she was getting agitated. But I was going to make her say what she had to say and no more skirting the fucking issue here.

“It’s just that you watch over me like you’re my dad or something,” she began.

“I’m sorry I care,” I contended blandly.

“I know, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. It’s just that…”

When she didn’t continue, I pressed, “It’s just that what?”

“I want to go out with my friends again, shopping or to the club to go dancing. I miss—”

“The drugs?” I interjected.

She let out an exasperated breath before hissing, “That’s the fucking bullshit that I fucking hate! You’re so fucking judgmental. You act like I’m the only one who fucked up. But guess what, asshole? You fucked up just as bad!”

Ah. There was the Sonya I’d met when I’d first found out about her addiction.

I took a deep breath and let it out before responding, trying to keep my cool. “I know I did. I fucked up badly. I’ve told you that. And I’ve never judged you.”

A cynical laugh burst from her through the line. “Uh huh.”

“Maybe we can go away somewhere. Take a vaca—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she screamed. “Can’t you get it through your thick skull? We’re no good together! We haven’t been for a long time! And I…” She got quiet and I heard her sniff several times. “I’m sorry, Beck but I don’t love you anymore. To be honest, I haven’t loved you since before I went to rehab.”

Christ.

Even after all the bullshit, I’d thought she’d come around, thought we might’ve been able to make things work. Guess that wasn’t going to happen.

I sat back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“Beck? I—I met someone.”

What the fuck? How in the hell could she meet someone when she spent all day at home?

“You met someone?” was my disbelieving reply.

“Yes.”

“Who the fuck is it, Sonya?”

“We’ll talk when you get home,” she answered, her voice cracking.

I listened as she cried, heard her sniffling and gaspy breaths before stabbing a hand into my hair and shouting, “Fuck!”

From the corner of my eye, I saw several coworkers walking past my all-glass-front office hesitate for a moment before moving on. Others, I knew, were staring from their cubicles. When Dana, my secretary, got up to pull my door closed—made of fucking glass, of course—with a sympathetic look on her face, it was all I could do to keep from throwing my phone at it as it shut.

“Beck…I-I’m sorry,” Sonya whispered between sobs.

“Yeah. We’ll talk tonight. Gotta go,” I replied and hung up.