Love Was a Dream, Now It’s Dead

Perhaps worried that the bacteria from the kitchen would somehow spread to every corner of the house, Adrian decided not to stay home that night. Before, Adrian showed no interest in household matters as long as I cared for them. But this time was different.

To my surprise, he actually called a cleaning service just to deal with the kitchen and even sent me a message on WhatsApp:

'Emily, if you're not feeling well, just take a rest. I've hired cleaners to take care of it.'

In our eight years of marriage, our conversations had always been a one-sided stream of unread messages from me. Adrian would only reply on rare occasions as if it were a privilege he granted to me. And whenever he did respond, it would be just a few lines. It felt like a small victory to me before.

I would then light up, chatting eagerly as though we were still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship, hanging on to every word as if nothing had changed. But this time, I glanced at the message with a sense of detachment, locked my phone screen, and didn't reply.

Later that evening, when Adrian returned, I ate takeout at the dining table. He didn't try to hide his disdain as he gave me a sharp look.

His eyes moved from the takeout container to me, and without a hint of patience, he snapped out, "Emily, you'll eat just about anything, won't you?"

Without waiting to explain, he took the takeout container from my hands and tossed it into the trash can outside the door. Then, he pulled out a polished thermos and set it on the dining table more carefully.

"Here. Eat this instead," he said.

Before I could open it, he tossed something else into my lap.

It was a hand cream.

"I had someone pick this up abroad. It's supposed to be really effective."

I glanced at the packaging, unimpressed, and put the cream back on the table.

My voice was calm as I said, "No thanks. I can't use something that expensive."

That set him off.

Then and there, Adrian leaned over the table, irritation flashing across his face as he lashed out, "Emily, stop acting like you're doing me a favor! It's just a tie, for god's sake! If it's ruined, buy a new one. Why are you making a big deal out of it?"

"No, I'm not," I honestly replied, which only caused him to scoff.

"You're not? Then why won't you take the gift? Why do you look like you're jealous again? Come on, Emily! You're already thirty. Do you really think you can still compete with women in their twenties?"

It wasn't the first time he had thrown my age in my face. He often compared me to Clara, who was only two years younger than me.

In frustration, I confronted him, tears brimming in my eyes as I demanded an answer.

"What are you trying to say, Adrian? That I'm old and washed up? Clara is more attractive since she's younger and prettier, huh? Are you planning to divorce me and marry her instead?"

I used to cling to him, desperately trying to get an explanation as if my entire life depended on his answer.

But all I ever got in return were more insults.

"Emily, how someone as petty and narrow-minded as you made it this far is beyond me. Would you still be around if I had something going on with Clara? Stop using that stupid brain of yours to obsess over her. You make me sick!"

That's how it always ended.

Any conversation about me disgusted him.

So, when he spat out his insults this time, I didn't argue back. I didn't feel the need to fight. My heart was eerily calm, like the stillness of a quiet lake.

Without a word, I slowly rolled up my sleeves, revealing patches of red, irritated skin and peeling.

I met his eyes steadily and said, "I'm allergic to the ingredients in that hand cream. How am I supposed to use it?"

The room fell into a thick, uncomfortable silence, the only sound being our shallow breathing. Finally, Adrian poured the clam chowder from the thermos into a bowl and smoothly slid it across the table to me.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he muttered, "Just eat first. I'll get you something else later."

As I stared down at the bowl, memories I had tried to bury came flooding back.

It was about half a year ago when I caught COVID virus for the second time. My entire body ached, fever burning through me, and I could barely move. I had weakly asked Adrian to hand me a thermometer.

But I was too weak. The mercury thermometer slipped out of my hand and shattered on the floor.

Without a second thought, Adrian grabbed Clara by the hand and rushed into the kitchen, locking the glass door behind them.

He yelled at me, covering his nose, "Emily, are you that stupid?! That's mercury! Do you even understand how toxic that is? Why aren't you cleaning it? Forget it. Just clean it up! I'm taking Clara out of here so she doesn't inhale the fumes."

Clara, visibly shaken, pointed at the dining table, her voice trembling. "Adrian, what about my clam chowder?"

Adrian didn't hesitate as he gently ushered her out the door, his voice softening. "Sniffles, don't worry about it. You've been breaking out in rashes from allergies lately, anyway. Seafood has a high allergen. Don't eat it. Leave it for Emily to eat."

But what Adrian didn't know was that I was already covered in rashes. My entire body had broken out due to the fever.

The screech of my chair against the floor brought me back to the present.

I stood up, my voice eerily calm, and said, "No need. I'm full."

With those words, I quickly turned and proceeded toward the elevator. In the past, Adrian never bothered to ask where I was going when I left.

However, on this particular day, he unexpectedly started following me and questioned, "Emily, where are you going? I'll drive you there."

While still covered in red, peeling skin, I raised my hand and gave him a sharp look. "Still want to?"

I had thought that would be enough to stop him from following me, but to my surprise, he stepped into the elevator with me.

He instinctively kept his distance, avoiding my hands, holding his breath slightly as he muttered, "I'm heading to the office, anyway. I'll drop you at the hospital."

I didn't bother to reply.

When we reached the underground garage, I climbed into the back seat of his Rolls Royce without a word.

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, surprised. "You're not sitting in front?"

Back then, I would insist on sitting in the front and going out of my way to remove anything in the car that reminded me of Clara.

But today, none of those trinkets or memories seemed to matter anymore.

"It doesn't make a difference. Just drop me at the hospital entrance," I said flatly.

Adrian didn't respond, though I noticed his knuckles whitening as he gripped the steering wheel.

When we finally got to the hospital, Adrian followed me into the dermatology department, even though he said he had work to do. But as soon as we walked in, Clara's custom ringtone started playing. Her tearful voice filled the air as she said, "Adrian, I broke the thermometer! What do I do? The house is filled with mercury! Am I going to die from poisoning?"