Evenings were the only time Wayne had in his schedule to walk the dogs when he got home from his forty-five minute commute. With the sun going down behind the mountains, it served as a reminder that the better part of his day was spent in the office answering phones. It was nothing like their lives back in Florida when their work schedules were lax.
The heavy silence drew his attention to his wife. She was rarely quiet; something he liked about her. Even with his minor in psychology, he could never fully gauge her moods. Her hair was starting to fall from the carefully placed pins. Her makeup was faded. Her allergies made her nose red, but she could've been crying before he got home. He couldn't always tell and she wasn't comfortable enough with her emotions to talk about them.
"I'm really starting to get pissed with all these photos of people on mountain tops, doing yoga. Who the hell are these people who have the time to climb mountains?"
He pulled back on the leashes, slowing the dogs pace. They stopped at a large bush, digging their nose into a hole among the leaves. "That's a weird thing to be pissed about."
She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm so frustrated with getting up at three in the morning to go to a job I hate. I'm pretty convinced there is nothing I'm good at. I hate feeling like I'm spinning my wheels and for what? I don't even enjoy this world. My physical pain is getting worse every day. The only time I enjoy eating is when I'm high."
"That's not true you know."
"What?" She glanced at him, fleetingly.
He now suspected her red nose was from crying. "That you aren't good at anything. That's not true. You're good at writing. I promise you, it's going to work out for you."
The last couple of years were stressful, paying off the building medical bills and fixing the car every time a new issue came up. Money was persistently on his mind, watching their accounts, making sure bills were paid on time, and constantly trying to get ahead. He talked about it too much.
"I want to believe that," she said, solemnly.
"You don't know if the people in those photos get up at three in the morning to go to work every day. All you're seeing is the end result to their labor. It's a snap shot moment of their lives."
They walked quietly across the street, stopping so that their dogs could smell the lamp post. Her attention remained ahead of them, but he tried to gauge her thought process.
"It's just one, quick instant," she repeated, under her breath.
He trained himself to hear those words, usually spoken so low that the slightest noise would cover it. "Like all the photos we have of us. You remember that photo I took three summers ago, of you running on the beach with a sign that said you finished NaNoWriMo. It's a snap shot moment of the things you've completed."
Her smile was soft. "I remember that. We made it to the beach late and the sun was going down. It was so cold running in the water."
"We agreed to live frugal now, so we could have better lives in the future. We're getting closer to that. I promise you, one day you could be doing yoga on a mountain top if you want... or the beach. I think you'd prefer the beach."
"It's not about the yoga," she grumbled.
"You're not always going to have to work three jobs. I promise you. One day, you can be a full time writer," he said.
"You don't get it. All these people walk around without a care in the world and they're wearing yoga pants."
The pause lingered and he sighed. "You know, if you want yoga pants, we have the money. And if you want to wear them everywhere, you can do that too."
"I'd like that."
"It's not going to fix how you're dealing with your stress. You really need to go back to your therapist," he said.
When she didn't answer, he reached for her hand. Her thoughts always spiraled. She would have a thousand more beliefs before they went to bed and even more before she fell asleep.
She squeezed his hand; partly in affection and partly to let him know the conversation was over. "I'll call the therapist tomorrow."
