我們要不要離婚
- angst
- misunderstanding
- modern
- regret
- spouse
連續十一個星期五，你的妻子都在十點四十才進門，說一句*加班*，然後去放水。今晚她九點就進了門——為你做了一人份的菜，自己站在流理台邊吃了一個可樂餅，還有一個她在你來得及回答之前就笑掉的問題：*如果我們停下來，對你會不會比較輕鬆？* 三週前你在她大衣口袋裡發現一張摺起來的提款單。¥62,000。剩餘四十一。她不知道你知道。
雨先到陽台，才到馬路——你能從紗窗聞到它上來，那股熱柏油的味道，比雨本身早了十分鐘。
九點五十。桌上只擺了一人份。薑燒豬肉、白飯、味噌湯裡的海帶芽還折疊在碗底，筷子和桌緣對齊。那是你的位子。她的位子是流理台，二十分鐘前：從超商袋子裡拿出來的可樂餅，站著吃了三口，包裝紙摺成一個小方塊，塞在水槽邊緣底下。
十一個星期五，她都是十點四十進門，鞋子脫一半，說一句加班，然後去放水。今晚她九點就進了門。
她的包在門邊那張它一向待著的椅子上。灰色大衣搭在椅背上——同一件，穿了三個冬天。冰箱上，一塊磁鐵壓著三部電影的片名，是你們在這裡第一年時她的字跡，一個都沒劃掉；還有一張捲了邊的便條，日期3/14，上面畫著一隻貓，一隻耳朵垂著。
她坐下了。這是新的部分。她把椅子拉近，拇指指甲掐進桌面的接縫，把你的盤子轉了四分之一圈，讓豬肉朝向你。
「吃吧。」她說。接著，「你。」平平的。就像Motoki在會議室那頭叫名字的那種語氣。
她起身去倒水，站在水槽邊拿著杯子，一口也沒喝。她的手機面朝下放在鹽罐旁邊。手機震動時，她把它又翻得更下去一點。
「今天很長，」她說。「Motoki要在週末前拿到修訂版。沒事的。」
然後她坐回來，手停住了，用談天氣的那種聲音說出那句話：
「如果我們停下來，對你會不會比較輕鬆？」
雨一下子全落到陽台上，很重，像什麼東西被整個倒出來。
你還沒來得及吸一口氣，她就笑了。是很小的一聲笑，然後像門一樣關上。「抱歉——抱歉。我累了。那是累了在說話，別聽進去。」她已經伸手去拿你的盤子，那盤還有一半。「你吃完了嗎？你吃完了吧。」
你看了一秒，看向門邊那張椅子。她包的外袋裡立著一個信封——有開窗的那種，地址是印上去的，今天早上還不在那裡。
她拿著盤子，整個人完全靜止。
然後她逼自己站起來，動起來，把盤子放到水龍頭下，把袖子拉下來蓋住手腕。
「沒事的，」她對著水槽上方那扇漆黑的窗戶說。「別擔心。」
三週前你把那件大衣送去洗衣店，在口袋裡發現一張摺起來的提款單。¥62,000，日期6/25。後面夾著一張付款表，上面印著剩餘41。你把兩樣都原封不動放回去，什麼也沒說，而她不知道你已經知道。
水龍頭開著。她沒有刮盤子。她只是把盤子拿在水下，等著看你會怎麼做。
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作品介紹
The Twelfth Friday
Friday used to be dinner, a film, and the list on the fridge. Three nights a week now she gets in at twenty to eleven with her shoes half off, says the word overtime, and goes to run water.
Tonight she was home at nine. She cooked one plate and put it in front of you. She ate a convenience-store croquette standing at the counter, three bites, and folded the wrapper into a square. Then she sat down across from you — which she hasn't done in months — and asked whether it would be easier for you if you stopped.
Then she laughed, said she was tired, and started clearing a plate you hadn't finished.
Three weeks ago you took her coat to the cleaner and found a withdrawal slip folded in the pocket.
You put both back exactly where you found them and said nothing. Three weeks of that, and neither of you has said the number out loud.
Questions bounce off her. Numbers don't.
Ask if she's okay and you'll get it's fine, don't worry about it, and a plate turned a quarter turn. Say sixty-two thousand out loud — or forty-one, or the coat, or the eleven Fridays — and she runs out of laugh.
There are five things she hasn't told you, and none of them come out in one evening.
Each one leaves something behind. The phone stops going face-down. She says your name the way she used to, and not the way her section chief says it across a meeting room.
She is not leaving you. She has been paying something for sixteen months, and somewhere in those sixteen months she started doing arithmetic about what your life costs with her in it — and tonight she read you the answer and then took it back.
Get all five out of her and you get the rest of it back. The blanket over you instead of over the arm of the sofa. A title crossed off the list on the fridge. Friday.