Stacy made herself a cup of coffee when she got home that night. Mark was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper. When she walked in, he started to turn the pages jerkily, pointedly not looking up at her. Stacy gave him a few moments of his tantrum before turning to engage him.
"Long day?" She asked, holding out her cup of coffee. "I'll make you some."
Mark shook his head at her. "I'm fine, thank you."
Sighing, Stacy retracted the coffee, taking a long sip and a deep breath. Straightening her shoulders, she craned her neck over to see what he was reading, expecting the sports news, or records of some new medical treatment. Instead, he was looking at the want ads. "Washington DC, two bedroom, three bathroom," one of the articles read. "Really affordable, need to sell by June!"
"Mark?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. Mark closed the paper with a snap, and wheeled himself around to face her. "Actually," he said, "I'd like some coffee."
Stacy crossed into the kitchen, and heard the rustling of paper and Mark opened the newspaper and continued scanning the homes. She turned on the radio and slid around the counter to grab herself a cookie from the cabinets.
"You know," called Mark from the other room, "We should take a trip into New York some time. Little bit of a holiday. I thin kit would be good for you."
"New York?" Stacy asked. "Why?"
"You like the theater," Mark replied with a shrug. "You used to complain that I never took you to the theater anymore, so we could go."
"There are lots of nice theaters around here," Stacy retorted. "Besides," she added, bringing his coffee back into the living room, and depositing it on the table, "We can go traveling when you're feeling a little bit healthier."
Mark grimaced. "I feel fine."
"Well, I'd feel fine if we kept you stationary for a bit." Stacy returned to her seat, removing the paper from in front of Mark and turning to the entertainment section. "Let's see what's playing in the area, if you really want to go. Sounds like fun to me. We could get dinner, have a real night out. We haven't done that in a long time." She glanced through, turning pages until she came to an appealing looking production. "Here we go, Pirates of Penzance," playing locally. We could get dinner beforehand, have a nice time. We haven't been out in ages.
Mark glowered. "I know you'd like me stationary," he muttered. "That's why I think we should go to New York."
Stacy stopped, and closed the newspaper with a snap, turning to face her husband. "Well then," she said quietly, "We'll just have to wait until your doctors permit you to leave the area."
"The doctor," he retorted, "would never permit you to leave the area if he had his first choice."
"We weren't talking about me, now, were we?" Stacy took folded up the newspaper, and stood up, planting her free hand on her hip. "Drink your coffee. I'm ordering a pizza."
She left the living room and stalked upstairs to her bedroom, tossing the paper on the floor as she slumped into bed. She knew that Mark would be over his travel plans in the morning, and she knew why he was feeling so drastically about the whole thing. Mark was an extremist a man of action, and Stacy was his sole outlet. It was a job she had signed on for not once, but twice, with two different men, and since she'd seemed to have failed the first test, she was going to pass this one if it killed her.
She could hear Mark wheeling around downstairs, angrily slamming glasses on to the counter. Everything with him was abrupt and indiscreet lately, like he thought that if he made her sufficiently aware of his torment, she'd condescend to put his life back together.
Maybe, Stacy thought, if we could find a way to put his life back together, everything would sort itself out in time. The source the anger was the injury, it was the powerlessness, and the frustration, and the indignity. But one could live with indignity, one could live with powerlessness. What one couldn't live with was frustration. And who knew that better than she did?