Used to Love, Now Fails

The filter on the photo was artfully applied.

Konstantinos liked the post and I quietly followed suit, tapping my thumb on the screen.

With a gentle hand on my stomach, I set my phone to silent, unaware of when sleep took hold of me.

Suddenly, I was jolted awake by the violent sound of the door slamming open and shut.

As I blinked into consciousness, I saw Konstantinos burst in, soaked to the skin, still wearing his slippers.

I glanced out the window; the moon cast a bright glow, the stars were sparse and the ground was dry.

Confusion washed over me as I wondered why he was drenched.

Before I could process the whirlwind of emotions, he seized my shoulders and shook me with urgency. “Iris, how could you be so cruel? I was away for days, longing for just a taste of your squirrel fish. But you wouldn’t make it, so she stepped in!”

“She can’t cook at all! She fumbled through making me a plate and burned herself in the process!”

“So, you’re just jealous? You pretended to teach her how to cook and added her on WhatsApp to spy on her, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean by liking her post? You might as well be calling her a mistress!”

“She’s just a naive girl, so sensitive that you might push her to the brink!”

“If I hadn’t intervened, someone could have met a tragic fate today!”

So, he had gotten drenched because he rushed to save Calliope.

The rapid-fire accusations swirled around me, making my head spin.

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, I dashed to the bathroom and heaved.

I clung to the toilet, retching for what felt like an eternity, not stopping until dry heaves wracked my body and I collapsed onto the floor.

Leaning against the door, Konstantinos watched, a statue of disapproval, as he tossed me a towel with a look of disgust. “How old are you? Still, pretending to be sick like a child to dodge adult responsibilities? Iris, you’re sinking lower and lower.”

I wiped my face with the towel, brushing away the tears that had spilled from my heaves.

As I did, my gaze fell upon the scar on my hand.

My culinary skills hadn’t been entirely self-taught.

That scar was a remnant of my attempts at making squirrel fish, during which Konstantinos had been so distressed he almost shed tears.

He used to apply burn ointment for me each day, forbidding me from getting it wet.

But now, like my scars, his memories had all healed.

I rose to rinse my mouth, my voice hoarse as I asked, “Konstantinos, when did I stop making you meals? Isn’t it because you refuse to come home?”

We had journeyed through a decade together and we had certainly faced our share of arguments.

Yet, each time, he would arrive with gifts, seeking to make amends.

I would prepare a plate of squirrel fish and over dinner, we would reconcile as if nothing had ever happened.

But today, he persisted, unyielding.

“Iris, if you had just softened up sooner, how could I not come home?”

“Now, put on some clothes and come with me to the hospital.”

“To apologize to Calliope and you won’t stop until she forgives you.”

I tightened my grip on the towel, countering, “What if I choose not to go? Konstantinos, you’re my husband. You’re dining on meals made by another woman, flaunting it on social media and now, because I liked a post, you want me to apologize to her?”

“If I apologize, what exactly should I say? Come on, Konstantinos, why don’t you teach me?”

He was momentarily rendered speechless.

Posting on social media was intended to be seen and liked, wasn’t it?

What could he possibly say that would make my apology acceptable?

Observing his conflicted expression, I gagged again.

His cold voice broke the silence once more, “Iris, is this never-ending with you?”

Hearing the contempt laced in his tone and witnessing his disdainful expression ignited my anger.

I swung my hand and delivered a sharp slap. “Konstantinos, get out!”