Entwined (comments much appreciated!)
They hated each other with a passion they could only develop after twenty-odd years of marriage. When you hate someone, you hate them because of something they've done, or something they failed to do, or something they are. That sort of hate comes in sharp strong pangs and it goes away quickly so you can get on with whatever it was you were doing. Marital hate is different. Its main weapon is suspense. It builds up over years, taking its time, knowing you have nowhere to hide. It feeds on the little things you never used to notice before. But now he couldn't stand the way she played with her hair. Especially in public. She did it in slow motion, her fingers wrapping a lock around them, while she gazed at who knows what. She wasn't looking at him, that's for sure. It was like flirting, that's what annoyed him so much. Just like she was flirting with everyone in the room but him. And she always stayed up long after he'd gone to bed. They used to go to bed at the same time, and she'd fall asleep on his arm. But now that memory was so pale that he wondered if it had ever happened. These days she'd be downstairs, all alone, doing what? Why couldn't she do it during the day? And oh how he detested coming home from work. He'd walk up to the front door, and he'd feel heavy and tired, and he'd think for a second of what would follow, and he'd feel sick, physically sick, and he'd make a grimace. But it couldn't be helped. With a sigh through his teeth he'd come in, and she'd always be there, always. He'd need only about five minutes, just to sit on the sofa with his eyes closed and not think for a change, but she'd never let him. She'd ask about his day, and he'd give an answer, any answer, something vague and general, the only thing his weary mind could summon at that moment, but she'd persist, and want details, things he would be trying to forget because he was home now, but she'd go on and on because she read these magazines that told you communication was the key to a happy marriage and he tired to argue about it once but it was no good, she was brainwashed, so she'd press on until she squeezed every irrelevant bit of information and then she'd go away, thinking she'd done her good deed for the day. He'd turn the TV on to try to calm down.
Sometimes they went out. It was better then. But they'd be in the middle of a conversation, he'd say something funny, she'd start laughing (she had a nice laugh) and then suddenly she'd stop and look at him in a funny way. He'd ask what's wrong, she'd say 'nothing'. It drove him crazy. He secretly loved being able to make her laugh no matter what. Now she was taking that away from him. Over time she developed other ways of making him seem small. She used to be so proud of what he did. She literally dragged her cousins and friends to see the two buildings he'd designed, even though they were at opposite ends of town. And when the two of them passed by the buildings, she'd stop and examine them, every time, and point out the little changes time made on them. Not anymore. These days she wouldn't even notice them. She did that on purpose, he thought. And sex. Sex was out of the question. You'd think all her fancy magazines with all their hints and tips would do some good at least, but nothing. Cold as stone at the best of times. He felt that she didn't lack desire, that it was him she didn't want. And that was what made him hate her the most.
One day he got home, ready for what was in store. She wasn't there. He was surprised, but relieved. For the first time in many years he sat down, took a deep breath and relaxed. He was happy. The silence was soothing. He lost track of time. It was the phone that brought him back to reality. A stranger's voice wanted to speak to him. He heard some confusing sentences about a woman hit by a car. The woman died. He put the phone down. Silence returned.
He didn't know who arranged the funeral. There were people coming in and out of their house all the time. He was always surprised when he failed to find her among them. She was good at these things, she would help. Then someone would tell him to go upstairs and lie down. But the bed smelled like her. He used to hate that perfume. Now it made him hold her pillow and stare at the wall.
The day of the funeral was very black. That was all he knew. After it was over, he came home, walked up the stairs, went into the bedroom, looked in a box in the wardrobe and found his gun. He remembered how she used to laugh at him for buying it. She had a nice laugh. Then he killed himself.
