Performative Ritual

He has certain expectations for the women in his life. Her closet represents many of them; only whores show their shoulders or their knees. Skirts must be long. Tank tops are simply for other people. People who aren’t them. People who aren’t decent like they are.

The only point where she resists him on this is in the matter of shorts. She ties the drawstring of the soft, stretchy material and is galvanized by her thoughts of justification. His shorts reveal his knees. Granted, he doesn’t wear shorts around customers, feels it’s too informal. But he’ll wear them to the store. So why shouldn’t she wear them around the house? The most she’ll be exposed is when she goes out to hang laundry in the backyard.

Her gaze flickers to the garish Broncos-themed clock in their bedroom. Not her choice, but she knows to choose her battles. It’s already past one.

She flits off to the kitchen, grabs a tall glass from the water, and rinses it with cold water. She pops it in the freezer to chill just the way he likes. It is summer, he is working, and he expects his water iced.

She tidies the home to the bare minimum degree, eager to get back to her reading. She keeps an ear out for when she hears the tires of his car crunch up the driveway.

She jumps to her feet and hurries into the kitchen. She walks the final few steps down the narrow aisle of their kitchen to the fridge. The grease-stained walls need to be cleaned, don’t they?

She cracks ice cubes out of a cracked tray and deposits them into the frosty glass. She fills the glass with filtered water, drawn up from their recently redrilled well.

She hurries to the door and waits. The porch steps creak beneath his weight. She unlocks the door and opens it, chilled glass freezing her fingertips in her other hand.

“Hello, honey,” she says, holding the door open for him.

“Hey,” he says, looking from her face to her clothes and then the glass.

He’s sweaty and emitting a distinct odor. But she feels immensely proud of herself when he nods and takes the class from her hand. She has accomplished not getting yelled at. She has done well today.

~

He never stopped the sleeping routine he adopted in the five years that he held a stable job down for. He’s early to bed and early to rise, even though he only works

But that means she gets time to have peace and quiet. She can lose herself in the dusty, yellowed pages of library books, bringing her to all the worlds she could never afford to visit.

She hears the creak of the bed in their bedroom. It’s the loud creak–he’s standing up. She glances over the back of the hand-me-down couch, from his mother, and sees that he’s getting ready for bed. She slips a piece of junk mail into her book to serve as bookmark.

She retreats to the kitchen, plucking a water glass from the dishwasher. She gives it a quick rinse to dismiss the clinging soap scum.

She fills the glass with water. She doesn’t need to bother with ice in the evening. She’s never bothered to ask why.

He’s dozing off, sleep timer on the TV already set. She sets the glass down on the worn coaster sitting on his nightstand. It’s on his side of the bed, so it is very much his nightstand, not hers. Their bed, with all its divots and indentations, is stuffed into the corner of their tiny bedroom. There’s not even space to walk around the foot of the bed.

She bends at the waist to give him an awkward hug. He lays there, doesn’t bother sitting up. He just puts a hand on her back briefly.

“Good night. Love you,” she says, the words familiar but so superficial in her mouth.

“Love you too. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

~

She is the one who works more now. She likes getting out of the house. It’s time away from him, even if people aren’t their kindest selves to bank tellers. The work is stressful, the stakes of making a mistake so high, but it is a break from him.

She’s given up on the idea of more permanent breaks from him. Her mother’s finally accepted him. How could she go back on her choice?

She is tired, her feet ache from standing for eight long hours. The bank will not let them sit down. It “looks bad,” so the manager says. But she drags herself up from the sofa to pour him a glass of water.

~

She gets home late one night. She dared to enjoy a few drinks with her coworkers. All the lights are dark and she’s relieved he didn’t wait up for her.

She washes the makeup off her face and brushes her teeth quickly. She steps carefully through their little home, avoiding the squeaky floor panels. She pours him a glass of water and sets it on the coaster on his nightstand with precise care. It musn’t make a sound.

It doesn’t, and she’s proud of herself.

She straightens and tiptoes away. She climbs carefully along the storage boxes of junk at the foot of their bed. She goes to the farthest side of the queen mattress before she lowers herself onto it, praying the shifting of the old springs won’t wake him up. She doesn’t want him to realize how late it is.

~

He shouts at her, curses at her, picks fights with her. It doesn’t matter that she pays all of their bills now. He does cook, but it’s never without guilt. “You’re so lucky I cook dinner for you!”

“What about all the years I cooked dinner for you before you decided you wouldn't work full-time anymore?” she would ask, if she didn’t know how angry he would get.

“A lot of women have husbands who don’t do that much!”

“But do those husbands work? Do they pay all the bills? Half of them?” she would ask.

But she only asks these questions in her head. She peels off her work shoes at the door, lines them up. The floorboards are peeling away from the side of the wall. There’s a small gap, exposing the sad, frayed edge of thin carpet.

Still, she pours that glass of water every night, leaving it on his nightstand. Even if she decides to sleep on the couch, knowing it’ll stir his ire, she still leaves him that glass of water.

He can never say she doesn’t care. He can never say she doesn’t bother. That glass is there every night, even on the days when she works and he doesn’t. (Which is most of them.)

~

One night, after the arguing went on all day, no matter how she tried to get away, she seeks refuge on the sofa. She stares at the little light on their satellite TV box. It’s blinking blue, the device powered off.

She realizes she didn’t pour his water. She doesn’t understand why she has to–he’s been blaming her for everything. Picking fights over the littlest things. Too much mail gathered up on the counter. Her taking too long to drive home from work. Her not being grateful enough for when he cooks, even though he’s at home all day, not working.

A skittering feeling in her chest tells her to get up and pour his glass of water. He’ll be all the angrier tomorrow over her behavior if she doesn’t.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

What does she owe him?

Not tonight. She will not budge tonight. She burrows her face deeper into the square sofa pillows, nestles deeper in the blanket, and curls herself into a protective ball.

Tonight, she won’t bother. She won’t perform for him.