The Way It Hurts
"Sharpay, where the heck have you been?" She drops her bag on the dining room table, casually making her way. She makes eye contact with her husband and shrugs.
"You had me worried—why didn't you call?"
"I didn't think I needed to. Do you want a copy of my daily itinerary?" She shakes her head jokingly and throws her pink jacket on the couch.
"Well, you are my wife. It'd be nice to least know where you are and not have to wonder if you're wandering the streets alone at night."
"Your wife—what, like you own me? Thanks but I can take care of myself."
"We're a couple—we're supposed to make decisions together. Maybe I would've liked to join you wherever you were."
"Oh, you wanted to join the girls for a night out. I guess I didn't realize you wore the skirt in the family. Are you doing the dishes for me now? Did you make a nice warm meal for me? I'm so sorry I missed it." Her voice dripped of sarcasm: a biting venom she tasted on her tongue as spit it into the air between them.
"What the heck? What makes you think you can talk to me like that?"
"What makes you think you can treat me like a child—like I have a curfew for Pete's sake!"
"I'm not—I just—God, Shar, I love you! Why is that so hard to understand?"
"Oh, is that why you married me? Sometimes I wonder—"
"I sure as heck didn't do it for the money!" Her retort catches in her throat for a moment. She stares hard at his angry smile, hoping to burn it off his face. His expression remains frozen on his face.
"Don't—don't even go there! My career—my career," the salvia thickens in her mouth as the tears well up in her eyes, "is not over. This is just a rough patch."
"And we can still afford dinner at the most expensive places in New York? You can still afford girls night out?" She says nothing in response. It's as if her tongue is glued to bottom of her mouth. Her eyes are overflowing now.
"I don't care if you get a freakin' job ever again!" He shrugs wildly and walks through an archway into the kitchen area. Her head snaps up furiously.
"What? What does that mean?"
"I never did care about your stupid career."
"Why not?" The heat turning her cheeks red is drying up her tears rapidly.
"Who cares? You don't the need the money," he yanks open the fridge and pulls out a casserole dish covered with aluminum foil.
"Just like you don't need this meal I cooked; who needs leftovers, huh?" He rips off the foil and bangs the dish on the side of the trash can until all the food has fallen out.
She shivers at the emotion he's displaying; she jumps every time he hits the can. Then he walks across the kitchen to the sink, holding the dish over it.
"Who needs dishes, right?" He drops the casserole dish, letting the glass shatter against the hard empty sink.
The chills running up Sharpay's spine release more tears. She holds her hand over her mouth protectively.
Troy pulls a couple of china plates out of cupboard and raises them high above the sink.
"No, Troy, don't! Please," Sharpay screams. She is sobbing now.
"Why not?" He is still holding the plates up, but she is unable to respond. She tries to shake her head but her whole body is shaking instead.
"Say it," he taunts. Her legs are unable to hold her up. She is bending over in emotional agony. She keeps shaking her head but cannot make a verbal response.
His arms grow tired and he places the plates safely on the counter. He does not walk to his wife to comfort her but past her to leave her.
"I'm out," he shouts as he snatches his jacket from the coat rack and opens the front door.
Sharpay, who is crumpled in the kitchen, turns to ask where he is going, what he is leaving, if he's coming back, but he slams the door behind him before the words come out.