By Rachel Vargeletis | Observer Contributor
Marsha looked up from the breakfast table. Her husband Carl was seated across from her, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper.
Not once did he look up at her and greet those sea-stained eyes. He was sitting across the five foot table, far from the familiar leg he would soothingly rub of the woman he married only years ago. Carl had his routine and Marsha was no longer a part of it, she was an unessential piece to the puzzle.
She looked back down at her half buttered burnt toast and tea, half empty and cold- much like herself. Carl sniffled and turned a page in his newspaper, raising it above his face now. A barrier.
“Carl,” Marsha started, staring at her breakfast.
She looked up, yearning for that stupid paper to drop and the chestnut eyes she fell so deeply in love with to meet her own. All that met her wet gaze was the black and white print of the morning paper. She knew it would only get worse.
A large, rough hand reached out from the side of the paper to pick up a mug then disappeared behind it again. Carl slurped coffee into his mouth. Another sniffle.
Marsha took a deep breath and took her cup of tea into her hands, staring at it, searching for some sort of encouragement. An angular face, with anguished blue eyes stared back at her. Her eyebrows were starting to grow out, she looked so tired without her usual makeup facade.
The picture of a melancholy woman shattered when she started to shake.
“Carl.” It came out in a choked whisper. Stuck in her throat, forcefully pushed out by her tongue.
The only response Carl gave was a clang of his fork on the plate out of Marsha’s sight.
It was raining outside, clouds shaded the view from the kitchen window of the usually dazzling park behind the apartment building. Inside, no lights were on. The blue of the kitchen walls reflected the mood flawlessly.
Marsha was staring out the window for a moment, contemplating whether or not she could “do this” anymore, when Carl finished with the newspaper.
Her eyes darted to him. There he was. There was that same handsome face in the pictures on the wall and the imprint in her heart. There was the face that twisted and soured now when she spoke, when she moved, when she breathed.
He looked up once, in a deadpan stare. His look had no softness to it, no caring edge or loving gleam.
“What.”
This was the last thing he was to say to Marsha.
She had messed up, he could never love her again. She was not the young, innocent girl he married. She wasn’t the woman that worshipped the ground he walked and the words he spoke. The one he could go to for comfort and for requited love. She was trash.
Marsha’s whole body trembled now. Her watering eyes released the tears oh-so familiar by now.
She tried to take a deep promising gulp of air, tried to say it in one quick breath.
“I-I’m” was all she could manage before Carl abruptly got up and walked to the sink, plate in hand. The look he gave said everything his mouth didn’t need to.
He was sick and tired of the sorrys.
“No, no” Marsha wiped at her face clumsily and turned in the direction he was headed.
“No…” she paused and stared wistfully into her lap, lip quivering, “Carl…” she muttered quietly, “I’m pregnant.”
A plate clattered into the metal sink. He looked at her, shocked, disgusted.
She was holding her head now, sobbing. There was no other sound to be heard for miles.
Carl couldn’t believe her words.
He had always wanted to start a life with her. Have children, raise them to be their own person – strong willed, respectable. Then grow old together. That was always the plan. Grow old together. However that dream disappeared long ago.
There was no growing old together if his wife was pregnant with another man’s baby.
He turned back to the sink and grabbed the edges of the counter as hard as he could, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.
It was all real now. They were over.
They were really over. Carl’s eyes began to water. This is what he wants.
Marsha knew there were no more words to say. Nothing she could tell him would make him stay. She looked emptily at the tearstained pajama pants and waited.
Waited for the slam of the front door, that came in a heartbeat.
And that was the last time she saw Carl.
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