She baby-talked down the phone to me as I trod on the pedal of the dustbin. She was saying some soft words about how much she loved me; I was peeling a carrot into the bin with the cordless phone crooked in-between my head and shoulder. It all felt a bit much. Her perfectly powdered matte skin was desperate to attract me, but all I wanted was to crawl inside the dustbin, close the lid, and die.
She said god had told her we were to be together. That I could try and fight it, but one day we'd end up together. I mumbled about not wanting to fight anyone. I mumbled about not being sure. I mumbled because I didn't want to hurt anybody. I mumbled because I didn't want to turn her down. I mumbled because I didn't know how to say no. And so, and so, and so... and so... and so it goes.
I close my eyes to dull the specks of rage, every time she tells someone how much we are still in love. I close my eyes and drift off, every time she recites the days since we've been married. I mumble in agreement each and every time. Because now, I'm dead. Dead inside. Instead of dead inside a dustbin.