If I’m so predictable and sooooooooo easily pleased, and you’re intelligent enough to figure me out down to a tee, how is it that you still manage to get it wrong?
That sounds more like a you issue than a me issue.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you don’t understand.”
“I simply asked a question.”
“No. You found somewhere to hide.”
A pause settled between us. It was the kind we had perfected over the years—long enough to make a point, short enough to deny there was a problem.
“You always make your coffee first.”
“What?”
“Every morning. Yours first. Mine second. If you remember mine at all.”
“You’re angry about coffee?”
“No. I’m angry that you think this is about coffee.”
“You could make your own.”
“I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you don’t notice.”
That earned an eye-roll. A small thing, perhaps, but we had collected thousands of small things. They lay between us like grit in a shoe—each one insignificant until you tried to rest.
“You leave wet towels on the bathroom floor.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“You never replace the toilet roll.”
“I replaced it yesterday.”
“After I left the empty holder on the kitchen bench.”
“That was childish.”
“It worked.”
“You could’ve just asked.”
“I did. For eleven years.”
There it was again: the great defence. If something had not been done, I had failed to ask correctly. If I had asked, I had used the wrong tone. If my tone was acceptable, I had timed it poorly. Every failure had an explanation, and every explanation somehow ended with me apologising.
“You forgot dinner with the Harrisons.”
“I was busy.”
“You agreed to go.”
“I said I’d try.”
“You said, ‘Seven o’clock is fine.’”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“You keep records now?”
“I don’t need records. You repeat yourself.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. We have the same argument every week.”
“Because nothing changes.”
“Because you won’t let anything go.”
“You mean the birthday?”
“I apologised for that.”
“After telling me birthdays are for children.”
“I bought you something.”
“At a service station.”
“It was still a gift.”
“It was windscreen washer fluid.”
“You needed it.”
I laughed, but there was nothing warm in it.
“You see? Predictable. Every single time. You hurt me, then explain why I shouldn’t be hurt. You dismiss something, forget something or refuse something, and when I react, my reaction becomes the crime.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair? You want to discuss fair?”
“I’m tired of being attacked.”
“And I’m tired of being starved.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?”
“You make everything sound worse than it is.”
“How long has our marriage been sexless, then?”
“Not this again.”
“How long?”
“I’m not discussing it.”
“Eight months? A year? Two years?”
“We’ve been busy.”
“For years?”
“Life gets in the way.”
“No. Life is what you use to keep me away.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“What is?”
“Reducing our marriage to sex.”
“I didn’t reduce it. You removed it.”
“There’s more to marriage than that.”
“I know. There are bills. Groceries. Washing. Appointments. Coffee made in the wrong order. Two people passing in a hallway and pretending that counts as intimacy.”
“I still love you.”
“You say that whenever you need the conversation to stop.”
“I shouldn’t have to prove it.”
“A touch would help.”
“I touch you.”
“You tapped my shoulder last Tuesday because I was blocking the fridge.”
“That’s cruel.”
“No. Cruel is lying beside someone night after night, knowing they’re lonely, and turning away before they can reach for you.”
“I don’t owe you sex.”
“I never said you did.”
“You act like it.”
“I wanted to be wanted. There’s a difference.”
Silence returned, but it no longer felt practised. It felt final.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I did. You just never thought you had to listen.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“I’m your husband, and I’m done begging my wife to want me.”
SEETHINGS promises a gripping psychological thriller that blends murder, passion, and secrets of a sexless marriage. Forman’s vivid prose draws readers into a world where lightning illuminates the skies and hidden truths. As the storm clouds gather, Mitchell’s journey promises to unravel more than just the mystery of the murders.
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