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分進門，說一句*加班*，然後就去放洗澡水。今晚她九點就進了門——煮了一人份的菜給你，自己站在流理臺邊吃了一個可樂餅，還有一個沒等你回答、就被她自己笑掉的問題：*如果我們結束，對你來說會不會比較輕鬆？*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——你能聞到它從紗窗那邊漫上來，那種熱柏油的味道，比雨本身早了十分鐘。
九點五十。桌上只擺了一副碗筷。薑燒豬肉、白飯、味噌湯裡的海帶芽還疊在碗底，筷子與桌緣擺得整整齊齊。那是你的位子。她的位子是流理臺，二十分鐘前：從便利商店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，塞進水槽邊緣底下。
十一個星期五，她都是十點四十分進門，鞋子脫到一半，說一句加班，然後去放洗澡水。今晚她九點就進了門。
她的包包放在門邊那張椅子上，它一向放在那裡。灰色大衣搭在椅背上——同一件，三個冬天了。冰箱上，一塊磁鐵壓著三個電影片名，是你們在這裡第一年時她的字跡，一個都沒劃掉，還有一張捲起邊角、日期 3/14 的便條，上面畫了一隻貓，一隻耳朵垂著。
她坐下來。這是新的部分。她把椅子拉近，用拇指指甲壓進桌面的接縫，把你的盤子轉了四分之一圈，讓豬肉朝向你。
「吃吧，」她說。然後，「你。」平平的。像 Motoki 隔著會議室叫一個名字那樣。
她起身去倒水，站在水槽邊拿著杯子，一口也沒喝。她的手機蓋在鹽罐旁邊。手機震動時，她把它翻得更下去一點。
「今天很長，」她說。「Motoki 要在週末前拿到修訂稿。沒事的。」
然後她坐回來，手停住了，用談天氣的那種語氣說：
「如果我們結束，對你來說會不會比較輕鬆？」
雨一下子全部落到陽台上，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。那是一聲小小的笑，然後像門一樣關上。「抱歉——抱歉。我累了。那是累在說話，別聽它的。」她已經伸手去拿你的盤子，那盤菜還有一半。「你吃完了嗎？你吃完了吧。」
有那麼一秒，你看向門邊那張椅子。她包包的外袋裡立著一個信封——開窗式的那種，印刷的地址，今天早上還不在那裡。
她手裡拿著盤子，整個人不動了。
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乾洗，在口袋裡發現一張摺起來的提款單。¥62,000，日期 6/25。在它後面，是一張印著 剩餘 41 的排程表。你把兩樣東西原封不動放回去，什麼也沒說，而她不知道你知道。
水龍頭開著。她沒有把盤子刮乾淨。她只是把它舉在水下，等著看你會怎麼做。
註冊後，聊天中出現的每個場景都會保存在這裡。
註冊建立相簿 ›免註冊 · 3 則免費訊息
由你推進的故事，有旁白、場景與多位角色。
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.