“They say Marriages are made in heaven…but so is thunder and lightning.
Take care to get what you like or you will be forced to like what you get. Where there is no ventilation, fresh air is declared unwholesome! – George Bernard Shaw”
‘Marry the man we chose for you…or you are dead to us!’
You frown. You did not tell your boyfriend you were getting married. So when your phone rings on your wedding night and his name and picture appear on your Samsung phone screen, you do not pick the call. It continues to ring, this Samsung edge with its delicate features, with his face on the screen; his lips glowing. You do not pick.
Your new husband stands up from the bed, his slightly protruded belly hanging low, as if tired. He walks into the restroom. The sound of his footsteps against the cool, mirrored tiles is like the sound of a person’s palm beating the surface of water. When you are sure that he is out of earshot, You pick up your phone to call Ray back, but then there appears a text from him.
“One day, our dreams will come through. We will both be the people we want to be. Happy and of course, blessed. Then I will have my heart’s one desire – coming back every day to see my baby on the sofa, with those hot legs crossed. I will kiss you and then we would talk about our day and what to do about our kids performances in school and sometimes maybe, their naughty behaviors. Till then, sleep well, My Queen.”
You feel a movement in your chest. A warm sensation wraps around you, like a small cuddle. Your new husband walks back into the room. He does not see the tears you are blinking back. He will never know that your eyes burn on the inside. He smiles at you, a suggestive smile, and you force a smile back.
“I am coming Nelson…” you say as you enter into the restroom too.
He nods quickly. As you close the door to the restroom, your back leaned against its smooth surface, you exhale softly, slowly, feverishly. You take off your top bra and panties and climb into the tub, your phone still in your right hand. You swipe open the screen and reread the sms from Ray again. This time around, there is a rhythm in your heart, a vibration of some sort.
The water rises around you, the white foam covering your thighs looking like snow. You read the part where he has written, “…with those legs crossed” and you laugh, tears streaming down your face without restraint.
You do not know how long you stay like that crossing your legs under the spell of a fairy tale, until you hear your new husband knocking on the door and saying; “is everything alright with you?”
You jerk back into reality and, almost in a slow motion, stand up from the tub. You put on the shower and wash away the foam from your skin. You like the feel of the water. When you come out, your husband looks at you from hair to toe.
“Hunnay, is everything alright?”
You nod quickly, smiling weakly. If only this jelly of a man will stop calling you ‘Hunnay’.
He looks unconvinced as you place your phone on the dresser and dry your legs. He stands up and walks out of the room giving you some privacy that you need. His buttocks, his belly, his flesh, every part of him is shaking, as if he is made of jelly and water. You remember Ray’s firm body.
Different thoughts start to contest for space in your mind. You wonder what Ray is doing at the moment. How he will stare at his phone and then mutter aloud, “Why isn’t my baby picking up?”
Your husband returns with a mischievous smile, and sees you lying on the bed. He claps his chubby hands together. Each of his fingers looks swollen, as if he suffered from whitlow. Then he climbs into the bed beside you. The mattress reduces, drowning in his weight.
You look up to the ceiling as a means to evade his eyes. You can feel them on you, those bulgy eyes peeping out of their sockets.
“Hunnay, I don’t like this. You don’t look happy.”
You turn to face him. His appearance is newly repulsive. His saggy breasts lie on his chest, as if they were sleepy and his stomach tilts sideways, as if about to fall.
“I am fine” You say hysterically. Your eyes looks like they will soon betray you, so you stretch your arms upwards to turn off the bedside lights.
“No hunnay, I want to see your face.”
You do not even protest as he turns the lights back on from his angle and stares moronically at you. You lay back down and take a deep breath to hold back the tears.
“I am just too tired from the wedding…” is all you manage to breathe out.
The rest of the night is a catalogue of mishaps. First, this jelly husband climbs on top of you after a feeble attempt he makes at touching, his weight crushing you. You feel him thrust in and out of you, after spreading your legs apart with his jelly sized thighs. His thing feel like the size of your pinky finger. You roll your eyes in exasperation. No foreplay, no proper romance. You sigh. The look of contentment in his eyes makes your stomach knot and when you feel the sticky warm fluid inside you, you feel soaked up in mire. He rolls away from you. It brings to mind the way the angels rolled away the heavy stone on Jesus’s tomb.
He keeps on panting as he slides away from your body and lay next to yours. You stretch again this time, determined to keep the lights off, as you flick off the bedside lights. Then as you lay back down, you feel his hand, the hand that is as rubbery as sachet water, cuddle you. Tears drop from your eyes and you bite your teeth into your lower lip to avoid crying out. You fall asleep but remember several amount of touching and his hands turning you to spread apart your legs for another round and yet another. You sigh in your sleep as you let him pound on. After all, he will only be there three to four [3 – 4] minutes.
In the morning when you awake, you see him approach you with breakfast in bed. You stretch to see the tray content, it is a healthy meal with a delicious aroma. Your stomach growls. You sigh as you look away.
“What is it? Do you need anything?” He is troubled by your indifference towards him.
“No…” you shake your head and almost immediately you add “please, stop calling me hunnay.”
He shakes his head “No, hunnay, I can’t stop from calling you that. Why? Don’t you like me calling you that?” He leans forward to wrap you in his arms.
You feel irritated from his somewhat-soft-grasp. You feel like strangling him as he chuckles into your face, looking like he is going to kiss you. You push him away slightly. “I just don’t like how it sounds in your mouth!” You respond.
“Do I call you ‘honey’ or ‘huni’?” He looks perturbed.
You wonder why he is acting foolish when they all sound the same. You shake your head and resign to fate. “It’s alright…” you say “I think I just need to get used to it.”
He smiles as he kisses you by your forehead and moves to drag the tray closer to you. You are grateful when you hear a knock on the door from his PA.