Day 2: The past.
"Nice to see you've started without me." She says and I laugh because she's late and I'm already drunk.
"Long day?" I ask casually as if this is not at all what this is and she raises her eyebrow at me, her perfect eyebrow is perfectly evil and I have to shut my eyes for a second because if I keep looking I might just reach for it and she will let me for she lets me get away with too much lately and I will be lost in her once again. I bet this is what she's aiming for. Why does she need it, that's the question.
She doesn't answer, she orders wine instead. I wonder what is it going to be tonight? Last night was biting words and angry remarks, and now all we have is silence and there's nothing to hold on to in the silence, feels like a free fall. Her face is stubborn and I can't see through it. My face is hidden in the shadows and the hat is helpful, but I still have a feeling she can see through the shadows, through the hat, through me. Maybe she can. I wonder if there's anything to see there, or if maybe the shadows and the hat are all there is. And maybe she can't see shit and is as lost as I am in this silence. There were times we didn't need words, but then it turned out she lied with words and without them. Lying without words should be punishable by death, or at least that's what I thought then. I was an idiot and she was a cheat and we deserved each other no less then we do now, but the silence is too much to take.
"Do you have nightmares?" I ask her and I know immediately I've hit the bull's eye: her whole frame shudders as if I'd hit her. Good.
"Do you?" Her voice is seething with malice and the game is on. I find my grip on the wine cup tighten, like I need something to hold on to.
"Yes. I dream that you didn't die that day and come back to haunt me every evening."
She laughs then and I find myself pleased. When did her crimes and my crimes become reasons for laughter? Never mind, this is good. The wine is good and my wife is laughing at me. Something must be right with the world.
"You're drunk." She states and her eyes turn dark and serious. This can't be good. "Can I ask you an honest question? Has the wine disarmed you enough to consider answering?"
I should say no, but I hesitate and hesitation is of course a yes.
"Do you ever think that you could have been wrong? Too quick to judge? Too angry? That you burned the very best thing in your miserable existence and mine for the matter? Do you, noble Comte?"
"Every fucking day." The words leave my mouth and it's too late to catch them. Her stunned expression is my reward for the pain that rises in my chest. The pain that I wake up every day to, the pain that calls for wine and sometimes drugs. The pain she is going to kick me in right now, no doubt, and I wonder if I'd survive the blow.
The blow doesn't come.
"Good." She says instead and leaves me alone.
No suffering through the evening tonight, then. Pity.