"Tomorrow"

Shellie and Stan stood in a mid-sized kitchen with maroon and cream striped wallpaper, curling at the ends. The silence between the two was deafening, an obvious quarrel lingered in the air. The only sound that was heard all night was the clanking of Shellie’s healed boots on the grey and white linoleum floor. They were clearing off the table after dinner and cleaning the dishes as Shellie, a much younger woman approached Stan, a married 46-year old man, about a conflict that has gone unnoticed for too long. After dodging the conversation for over a year, the tension could have been cut with a butcher’s knife. The danced around each other in the kitchen as a means of avoidance, and they certainly never made eye contact.

A definite sadness came across Shellie’s face as she closed the stained, white door of the dishwasher. “Hey honey, listen I wanted to talk to you about something”, she said in an almost surrendering manner. Hesitantly, Stan nodded his head without making eye contact, confirming his knowledge that the elephant in the room had finally been noticed.  He pretended to be searching the refrigerator for something, reaching deep in the back, moving around jars of jelly and skim milk. Really, he was searching for some sort of absolution, perhaps a container labeled The Answer. Shellie ignored his obvious evasion, “Well, I was wondering if you’ve talked to Suzanne yet? You know, about anything…about me, about us.” When she uttered that last “us” her head drooped, her dirty blonde bangs swept over her eyes. Stan gave off a nervous giggle without conveying a clear answer to her. Did I just laugh? He thought. He knew, though, that it was better than the million other things he truly wanted to do.

“I mean, I can only imagine how hard this is for you, but come on. I can’t keep doing this Stan, you’ve met my parents, my sister, you practically live here. I’m not going to be your mistress so you can have your cake and eat it, too.” The distraught woman was looking at Stan, full on, breathing heavily. Stan felt her eyes staring at him, like lasers cutting through his filthy skin. Despite this, he kept clearing off the table, taking much longer than any other time to scrape the left over mashed potatoes out of the porcelain bowl. Shellie was not backing down, though. She finally got the nerve to initiate this conversation and by God, she was going to finish it. “Oh, of course you have nothing to say, now huh? How long did you expect this to go on for?” she said, her voice began escalating. Stan nodded his head with shame and massaged his temples, his eyes blank and gloomy.

“Fine, if you don’t want to tell her I will. Don’t make me do that Stan, don’t make me look like that crazy girl. This is hard enough and now you can’t even talk to me.” She began breaking down, the tough-girl act quickly pushed away. Stan dumped the now empty bowl into the soap-filled sink and gently sat down on the coach, cradling his head in his hands. “I thought we were a team. You said this would all work out Stan. Well, I’ve waited; I’ve waited longer than any woman should ever have to wait. Maybe you should go home and figure out what you really want so you don’t waste anyone else’s time.” Stan glanced at her, standing there with one hand on her hip holding a spatula and the other swiftly wiping a way a fallen tear. He knew that she was looking for some sort of affirmation, some glimmer of hope for the relationship. Stan knew, though, that he wasn’t prepared to give that to her. He felt the woven fabric of the sofa smothering him, releasing memories of Suzanne that bolted through his body like electricity. He quickly picked himself up, gave Shellie a modest kiss on the cheek, slid his tired feet into his work boots and without tying them, exited Shellie’s apartment.