#Chapter340
Arrick rubs his hands down his face and exhales slowly. Losing the will to live, little by little with every passing hour of the last seven months. Blowing out air dramatically before even turning to me.
/"Baby… I didn’t mean anything by that. You know I mean…/" He sighs again and gives up. It’s like he doesn’t see the point in repeating his rehearsed speech that he has to recite three dozen times a day for making me cry at the slightest thing and stares at the elevator ceiling—probably to remind himself for the zillionth time why murdering your wife is not a good idea.
Tears have become my constant companion and I think even he is immune to them after consoling me every twenty minutes for what feels like a decade.
/"I won’t be fat soon, then you can stop making me feel bad about it…/" I wail, like a crazy deranged weirdo, shoving him in the side. Broken hearted at my husband’s meanness as he stares blankly and prays for the ground to open up.
