Purgatory

Even 12 years later, her eyes sting with fresh pain whenever she sees him.

He enters the cafe and walks toward her, in no rush at all, his belly sagging beneath his belt buckle like a bag of gold. She is reminded of when she first saw him, how handsome and rugged he had looked when he walked straight up to her and told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was the first time anybody had noticed her, and she fell for his confidence immediately.

Compared to his younger self, his body looks like melted ice cream, his muscles turned to flab, but his long, jagged nose is just the same. She remembers how it used to press against her cheek whenever he kissed her. His calculating eyes, which once made her feel like his valued specimen now make her feel naked.

She fights the urge to cover herself with her arms. She feels hideous in the beige turtleneck sweater she spent all morning picking out. He wears a blue and white hoodie and sweatpants, a matching pair featuring the colours of his alma mater: Go Blues!

The winds of the last days of October have made their mark through his thinning hair, normally neatly combed, but now standing up on end. He pats it down with one hand, holding his coat in the other. Her stomach churns, unable to process the complexity of emotions he causes in her just by existing. Memories flash into her mind like a PowerPoint, and she is unsure which to trust. Their wedding night when they first made love. A lie. The day their daughter was born. An irreversible link binding them together. The day she surprised him on a work trip and put an end to his twisted game. Every good memory is blackened with tar.

And the worst of it all: she still loves him, at the cost of any love she might have once had for herself. She takes a sip of her latte, ordered extra hot, and the burning sensation in her throat is oddly soothing. He greets her with a nod and takes his seat across from her, grabbing the cortado in front of him.

“Thank you for the coffee, Jaan.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snarls. His eyes widen, and his gaze falls to the coffee. He reaches for a packet of Splenda and stirs it into his drink. She hates playing the crazy wife. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t recognize those words coming from your lips.”

“It’s ok. I understand.” He looks at her again, and she straightens in her seat. Against her will, she arches her back, flushing out her chest. “Have you been sleeping?” Just like that, her ego crumbles with one sentence.

“On and off,” she responds, frowning, deepening the lines between her eyebrows which match the dark circles.

“How is the pain?” He asks.

“It’s fine,” she lies. Even now, her knee is throbbing. She’s so tired of taking painkillers, of getting old, of having nobody to take care of her. But how can she let anyone close enough to do so?

He raises an eyebrow, taking another sip, and his eyes flash to the cane leaning against the wooden table. It features pictures of butterflies in green, blue, and pink. “Doesn’t it suck getting old?”

“Fuck getting old,” she responds without a beat, taking another sip.

He smiles at her, and it’s such a warm smile. The creases by his eyes only add to the charm. She wants to believe in it, to roll her eyes at his corny jokes and lean against his shoulder while he explains the plot to movies she couldn’t care less about.

“Did you think about what I said?” And just like that, the shift.

“Yes.” She responds in no more than a whisper.

“And?”

“I… I just don’t know how I can ever trust you again.” Her lip trembles, and she holds back the flood of memories, like a dam made of twigs holding back the whole ocean. To think of them now would break her.

“I understand,” he pauses, choosing his next words carefully, “but I’ve told you time and time again how sorry I am, and I’ve put in the work, Jaan. I really have. I would never do those things to you again.” He sounds sincere, but she's heard it before, early in the morning when she begged him to tell her why his business trips always ran long.

“But you already did them.” She is the one who felt the pain of what he did, who had to go on taking care of the children while feeling empty inside. They forgive him quickly, and she hated herself for wishing he suffered more consequences. She would never take away their father. But their father killed the woman she was, and lives his life as though there isn’t blood on his hands. The cold sore forming at the corner of her mouth begins to burn, another of his wounds. Their relationship is the only leverage she has left.

“I know.” But he can never truly know.

They are silent for a while, sipping their coffee and watching strangers with less baggage. A couple sits nearby, a beautiful young woman and a man who cannot take his eyes off her. She tries his drink and shoots him a look of jealousy that makes him melt. Without a word, he switches coffees with her, and returns to leaning on his knuckles and watching her. Will it last?

He finally breaks the silence. “We told the kids we stayed together for them. They moved out more than two years ago, and have their own lives. They keep asking me what's going on with us. It’s time we make a decision, not for them, but for us.”

“For us?” She wants to watch the couple for a little longer. She would be content to exchange her life for the chance to observe them for eternity.

“Yes, for us.” He reaches across the table and puts a hand on hers, bringing her attention back to him. The mug between her palms could never compete with his warmth.

She turns to look him in the eye. “You said you’d wait forever for me.”

“I meant it when I said it.”

“And now?”

He looks out the window, crumbling the empty packet of Splenda with his fingers. “Sara, I’m turning 60 next year. Soon, you will join me. It's no longer about getting old. We are already there, and I don't know how much longer I can wait. I don’t even know how long I have left. Some days it takes all the strength I have left just to get out of bed. I've been on my own for so long. I never thought you'd make me wait this long.”

The words hurt. The 12 years have been much harder for her than him, if only he knew. “I told you, I don’t know if I can ever trust you again. But…" She bites her lip, giving words to new thoughts, "I’m willing to give you another chance. I’m willing to try.”

His eyes widen again. She looks for any sign of emotion, positive or negative, but he keeps his cards close to his chest. He takes a sip of his coffee.

"What does it mean to try?" He finally manages.

“Will you move here? It will be easier to try to make things work if we are in the same city to start.”

"Jaan, I have my job in Riyadh. I'll retire in a few years, but I still haven't met my savings goal." His savings goal, not ours.

“So, what do you want from me then?”

"Well, when I visit, it would be nice not to have to stay in a hotel. I'd like to stay in the house we bought together, you know? Wake up to the smell of your mouthwatering halwa puri." Her heart sinks. Nothing has changed, not really. He doesn't see her as more than how she gives him value.

"So you want things to stay exactly the same, and just to have a place to stay every time you visit your kids. I'm sorry but I've been down that road before and it just hurts too much."

"Well, are you happy with the way things are right now? We’ve been stuck in the same shit for 12 years. I can keep saying I’m sorry, but things won’t change unless you make a decision. I have changed, but if you don't trust me, and that's understandable, then let me go. Make a decision.”

She takes a deep breath. “You want me to be nothing more than a housewife, and that's not what I want to be. I had a wonderful career and I gave it up without even a word of protest when you found a job abroad. And you made me look like a fucking fool. I'm sorry but I'm not going to put myself through that again." Her mouth throbs. He hates it when she curses, and it makes her feel powerful to do so. The little wins count for something.

He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb, letting out a heavy breath. He opens his mouth multiple times, and then closes it. Each time he bites his tongue it is her who bleeds. The silence causes her anxiety and she begins to imagine all the worst case scenarios.

“What is it? Have you started again?” She asks, trying not to let the emotion seep into her words. These accusations are frequent; they make her feel crazy, but they are not undeserved. He lowers his hand, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and he looks at her sympathetically.

“I just... don’t love you anymore. Not the way I used to anyway.” She shatters into a thousand pieces. Every doubt she’d felt since the first time she accused him of cheating. I'm not pretty enough. Too loud. Too argumentative. I'm no good.

“Well—that's all there is to it then—no need to fix what's already broken.” She speaks in short bursts to avoid the tears. She can’t let him see her cry. Not now. How cruel it is to pray for honesty for years, and now to long for the bliss of all the lies. Surely they hurt less.

“I want you to leave.” She bites her lip, barely hanging on.

“Sara… I—”

“Please, leave, Hasan. Now.” She knows a breakdown is imminent.

He looks at her for a long time, and for a moment his eyes are soft, a glimpse of the man she married. Then his gaze hardens. He nods, to himself more than her, stands, and flings his coat over his shoulders. Without a goodbye, he turns and leaves the cafe, slow as he came, leaving behind two unfinished cups of coffee, and not a woman of almost 60—his wife—but a 6-year-old child, abandoned by everyone she ever trusted.