By Héctor Hernández

My wife and I had worked out a morning routine over the years of our marriage—a ballet of sorts where she spun one way to open the refrigerator door while I spun the other way to open the utensils drawer. That synchronized, fluidity of movement had polished itself over time to the point where words were unnecessary while we moved through our morning activities in the kitchen before we each headed our separate ways to work.

So I was surprised by that little shove of hers. It had been deliberate. I was certain of that.

Although shocked by her aggression, I said nothing, choosing instead to continue as if it hadn’t happened.

In our thirty-six years of marriage there’d never been any aggressive physical contact between us. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Those first years had involved some pretty aggressive behavior, all of it concentrated on sex, though.I had been surprised back then as well. My four prior experiences in the art of love making hadn’t prepared me for the rough movements that my wife had surprised me with. But that had been a gratifying surprise, a pleasurable one. This new surprise had been nothing of the sort.

As I stood there, hoping for some kind of explanation—knowing deep down none would come—an odd rhythm tapped away in my head.

For years our marriage had sounded as regular as a clock: tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. But now there was a noticeable difference. I could hear it. A definite tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. How long had that been going on? Did it just now start, or had it been that way for some time, and I just hadn’t noticed before?

With no apology materializing, I finished my business in the kitchen, kissed my wife goodbye—receiving a cheek for that purpose when she turned her head and mumbled a response that could have been “bye” or “why?” I wasn’t sure—and hurried off to work.

In my office, I performed tasks poorly—if I performed them at all. I just couldn’t concentrate. What had I done to merit not only a shove but also a sullen response from my wife that morning? I hadn’t forgotten our anniversary—that was months away. I hadn’t forgotten her birthday—also months away. What important date could have slipped past me? Try as I might, I couldn’t think of one.

It was three o’clock. Time for my afternoon break.

I had a routine. For my morning break, I’d walk to the local market half a block away and buy a banana—always a banana. I’d stroll back, walking on the opposite side of the street, window gazing like a tourist into the shops that lined the route, eating my snack.

In the afternoon, I’d walk in the opposite direction of my morning break, arrive at the local donut shop, buy a chocolate donut—always chocolate—and turn back. My morning and afternoon routines were as fixed as the laws of physics. I was a man of routine. A predictable man. “A man without spontaneity,” my wife often complained. “A reliable man,” I would always counter.

As I made my way to the donut shop, I thought back through each day of the past week, trying to recall any exchanges I’d had with my wife. Had she voiced any concerns that I failed to take seriously? Nothing came to mind.

At the donut shop, they were out of chocolate donuts. In all the years I’d been a customer, they’d never run out of chocolate donuts. The woman behind the counter suggested a glazed donut, but I had always had a chocolate donut and left deeply disappointed.

As I walked back to the office, I turned my attention once again to solving the mystery of that little shove from my wife that morning.

When had we argued last? There had been nothing this week, but what about the week before? Nothing, still. Maybe I’d accidentally fanned to flames the embers of some long-forgotten argument by some innocent remark I’d made. My wife was like a pit bull when it came to arguments, never letting go of one after she’d latched on to it. She’d occasionally shake the poor thing back to life as the mood struck her.

If there had been no arguments these past two weeks, then I would have to go back even further. And that’s when it hit me. There hadn’t been any argument, not that week or the week before or the week before that or the week before that one. I realized not only had there been no arguments between us these last several weeks, there had been no conversations.

I was stunned. But it was true. There hadn’t been any conversations between my wife and me in weeks, maybe months. Certainly there’d been words exchanged between us, but “good morning,” “good night,” “hi,” and “bye” weren’t really conversations.

We had each slid into our own separate, well-grooved routines that left no opportunity for real engagement between us.

My phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Emerson? Hi. How are you? This is Sandra Savage. Your wife suggested I call you on your afternoon break.” In spite of the friendly voice, a sense of dread bubbled up from the pit of my stomach. “I understand from her that you usually take your breaks away from your office. Is this a good time for you to talk?” Silence. “Mr. Emerson?”

“Just tell me what you have to tell me,” I said.

“All right.” An abrupt change in tone, the veneer of cordiality stripped from her voice and tossed. “I’ve been retained by your wife to initiate divorce proceedings.”

I still held the phone to my ear, but I didn’t really hear what more Sandra Savage had to say. I was thinking the local market had its own little bakery. They were certain to have chocolate donuts there.

*        *        *

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and worked nearly twenty-seven years for the County of Los Angeles, primarily administering construction contracts. He is now retired. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, and CaféLit.