Should've Said No

“Should’ve said No.”

They called it marriage. He called it the mutually binding contract of prolonged torture. He regretted his verbal agreement, “I do,” constantly especially when he looked upon his mad Medusa. She was the biggest conundrum of life, sweet one moment and raging the next, most of the time from reasons completely out of his grasp. It was always much worse when it was what she named that time of the month. He awaited it like it was Judgment Day, because he was always on the hot seat then.

More than one morning had this happened; the mad woman stormed through the bathroom door and into their bedroom. The man was suffering from weekend syndrome, which made him undergo his usual transformation of a horse into a sloth. She threw a garment over his sleeping face, it was cotton and rather smelly—his pair of checkered boxers.

“How many times have I told you to put your underwear into the laundry basket?” said the furious wife. “Wake up you stupid fat pig.”

The man brushed his boxers off his face and grunted. He raised his eyelids lazily and glanced over her. The plump, frizzy-haired woman had a bathing towel wrapped over her wrinkled, freckled, graying body. “Go take a look in the dumb mirror,” said he. Then, he rolled off to his side and fumbled with his blanket before dozing off.

Nag, grumble, nag— it was the only thing she did, or wanted to do. Initially he appreciated it, liked it even. She cares for me, he thought, proud of the jewel he found. Now her nagging sounded like a metal teaspoon that clinked next to his ear incessantly. That wasn’t the end of it, sometimes her complaints would escalate to painful levels; she could sound just like a wailing banshee. “Shut up,” he would tell her angrily, but only to regret it when her volume rose to that of a loud steam engine. The woman’s voice was too detrimental to his delicate aged ears.

“The laundry bin is right next to the floor. Are you blind?” said the wife.

The man pulled down the sheets that covered him and glanced at her again. He pondered over the question, his gaze remaining fixed on her. “I completely was,” he replied. He looked at her blurrily, wondering why he never decided to untie that unfortunate accidental knot.

His wife crossed her arms and shot him an accusing glare. “You have to pick our kid up from tuition in two hours.”

Our kid! How could he have forgotten? She was the blood-boiling imp that served as the shackle of his unsuccessful marriage. His contract with his wife had already lasted for twenty years; unsurprisingly, many quarrels and fights had cropped up. One time, yet another not-so-silent earthquake had shaken the dead of the night, waking the child. “I will divorce you!” the wife shouted. He didn’t notice the flower pot that was flying straight at him until the very last moment. The man dodged it quickly; the woman was excessively violent—she almost killed him!

The couple was certain that divorce papers would be filed the very next morning. They were seated on the separate ends of their long sofa, pouting, frowning and fuming, exhausted from the battle. Their five-year old daughter came up to them, her nose red and tears streaking down her pink cheeks. She looked at them with her lovely brown, large eyes and a pout that made the man’s heart tighten. “Papa’s going to leave mama?” she said, hugging Mr. Teddy tightly.

It was a reflex. A parental thing. All parents had to console their children. “Oh no darling,” said the man, “Papa is always going to be with mama.” That was it—the final seal on the fate that the pair never wanted to be trapped in.

How quickly children grew was frightening. At least I have my daughter, she makes this all worthwhile, the man once thought. He used to call her his cute little princess. She would show him the rough colorful sketches of castles and ponies that she drew, and never failed to give him an unusual piece of artwork every father’s day.