She stands at the kitchen sink for a full three minutes before lowering her gaze at the dozen or so dirty dishes. She chooses the first one at random, picks up the sponge, and commences another mundane routine. The coffee slowly drips into its glass pot. The morning show blares on in the background but nobody is paying it any attention.
In the adjacent living-room sits Uninterested Husband who has zero indiction at what she’s feeling or much less will feel once she’s finally left alone for the day. With the children sent to school and the husband off to work, she will inevitably slip deeper down into a depression nobody knows about—, not even her therapist, because after all, she wears one hell of a smile.
When did everything snowball into such a sad truth? The years seemed to pass by so fast when she was younger and loving life, then suddenly, they slowed to a crawl. Thighs grew. Hips got curvier. Husband stopped touching her at night. What is a gal to do but continue onward with the show? She snaps out of her daydreaming and shuts off the sink faucet with force, already plotting out her next post about such trivial tasks like washing dishes first thing in the morning.
The only empowerment she ever feels anymore is through other people’s words, other people’s opinions—, for her own ran out long, long ago. Digital mind games meant for middle schoolers, that yet, seem to fit her like a glove.
Is it any wonder her friends seemed to disappear one by one? Her memories of a happier time, too. What keeps her going nowadays is the mental static she experiences in-between concrete thoughts. Through the wavy and fuzzy lines are shapes of faces she still sees in her dreams. Faces of former friends, lovers, and past reflections of her own self in the mirror; carefree and full of joy.
She begins cutting the potatoes for tonight’s dinner with delicate accuracy as she catches herself staring at the sharp blade longer than she’s supposed to. That… instrument of endless misery but momentary release as well. It seems her anti-depressants aren’t really working today. This is no good. How will the quiet hours ever pass? How will this very moment? With untold regret and nothing else. That’s how.