I did growl then, and this time my face fell into my hands. If he didn’t sign those transfer papers, then I would send him a picture of an ass. Maybe lots of asses. Only they wouldn’t be mine. And they wouldn’t be human. They would be equine.
“Fiona, darling, I’m not trying to aggravate you. You know where and how we invest is important to me.” His voice was soft, beseeching, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I loved his voice; I loved his posh British accent; I loved it when he called me darling, which—after fourteen years of marriage—he rarely did anymore.
Usually I could laugh off his churlishness and bring him around to my perspective using well-reasoned arguments and my wifely wiles. But I didn’t have the time or the mental energy at present to entertain my forty-one-year-old husband’s plethora of opinions—opinions I usually considered endearing and charming.
For some reason, in this instance, his opinion didn’t feel at all charming. It struck me as burdensome and self-indulgent. Like he was being dismissive of the work I’d done, the massive amount of time and effort I’d spent on resolving this vitally important issue.
“I have to go,” I finally said, because I did have to go. But also because my head hurt and I couldn’t talk to him anymore without losing my temper.
“Okay . . .”
I wasn’t looking at him, my brain was full of fire ants, but I heard the reluctance and surprise in his voice.
“Okay. Bye, Greg.” I lifted my gaze and scanned the screen for the location of the cursor, moving the mouse to the end call button.
“I love you, Fiona,” he said, his voice still soft, coaxing, and maybe a little confused.
I gave him a flat smile and nodded, responding reflexively, “I love you, too.”
“Don’t be angry.”
I shrugged. “I have to go.”
“Okay, love.”
“Bye.”
“Wait, Fiona—”
I ended the call before he could complete his thought and immediately regretted it. I would apologize to him later. Staring at the desktop icons for a full minute, I contemplated what to do next.
I wouldn’t dismember his boxer briefs. I loved it when he walked around in just his boxer briefs. He’d maintained the lithe runner’s build from our college days. Even if he hadn’t, I would still enjoy watching him walk around half-naked, because he was my husband, he was mine, and I was his. I truly adored him . . . most of the time.
But if he didn’t pick a different fund and sign those papers, I was seriously considering hiding all the cell phone chargers he kept in the apartment.
I shook my head, dispelling the childish impulse, and checked my watch again. It was time to go.
As I grabbed my bag and left our apartment, a sinister voice in my head—tired of being covered in fire ants—reminded me there was another option. I could fake his signature and never tell him, invest the money without him knowing. Just contemplating it made my stomach hurt. It was a line I wasn’t ready to cross. I’d already allowed Grace—who is five-years old—to have a princess costume to wear to a slumber party, and Jack—who is eight—to play soccer without Greg’s consent.
I hadn’t even asked Greg because I’d known what he would have said.
That’s right. Greg had an opinion about princess costumes and boys playing sports—he was against both. I knew for a fact he hated princess culture, loathed the Disney machinery of patriarchal oppression and objectification as he called it. He’d also said in the past if Jack played sports then Grace had to as well. Which was why Jack was currently taking ballet with Grace—because if Grace took ballet, Jack had to as well. Jack didn’t mind learning to dance, as long as he also got to play soccer.
But Grace didn’t want to play soccer. She wanted to wear pink and play with dolls. She also loved superheroes, Legos, drawing, Darth Vader, and astronomy. She was a great kid, who happened to love dressing as a princess. So while he was gone, I bent the rules. Just a little.
“Hey, earth to Fiona. Anyone home?”
I started blinking as I brought my neighbor into focus. He was holding the elevator doors open, had likely said hello, and I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed. This level of distraction was very unlike me; awareness and the cataloging of my surroundings was typically second nature. Apparently, I was extremely upset.
I rushed forward into the lift and turned to give him an apologetic smile as he walked in after me. “Oh, hi. Thanks. Sorry, Matt. I’m a little preoccupied. Sorry.”
He pressed the button for the lobby and stepped back to face me, tilting his head to the side, his light brown eyes assessing as they moved over my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. How are you?”
“Just fine,” he responded slowly, openly inspecting me according to his habit.