Scheduled Delays
by Avitus B. Carle
The wife will only have sex with her husband on Tuesdays. The lights must remain off. He may only enter her from behind.
The husband only sleeps naked on the weekends.
The wife and husband talk about divorce during their pancake dinners on Thursdays. He says he misses her, but that’s a lie. What he means is that he misses how they used to be. The wife admits to not remembering. She remembers him, with flowers and pressed shirts on his knees, proposing again and again. Her saying yes again until she forgot so he forgot and now he pretends to remember something that’s no longer there.
The wife visits her lover every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night.
Every Wednesday, the wife’s lover begs her to stay.
Every Wednesday, the wife says she will, then leaves before her lover wakes. There are pancakes to be made and her husband deserves to know.
The husband and wife agree to stay together every Friday morning.
Every Friday evening, the wife practices packing and unpacking her suitcase.
Every Friday evening, the husband visits his lover.
The husband’s lover never begs him to stay. That’s not what they are to each other.
The husband tries to convince himself that’s not what he needs from his wife.
The wife tells herself that’s not what she wants from her husband, her lover, that she is capable of making her own decisions, all she needs is time.
The husband wakes every Saturday morning and thanks his lover for understanding. Kisses their bare back. Asks if they are awake, if they’re listening, will they have him again?
The husband’s lover wishes they could sleep in on the weekends.
The wife’s lover spends their weekends on the phone, waiting for the wife to answer. This weekend will be different, something will change, the wife will realize the lover deserves to be more. They strangle their fingers with the cord of their phone wondering if the wife would prefer if they called from their cell, if she prefers him to them.
Every weekend, the wife loses her phone in the knife drawer, weighing the risks of 100 cuts should she reach inside. Instead, she dances to the vibrations rattling the silver.
The husband knows his wife has a lover. They meet on Saturdays, the only day he may kiss his wife on the lips.
The husband’s lover knows he has a wife. Listens when the husband confesses to all the mistakes he’s made in their marriage while kissing between the lover’s thighs. The lover can’t complain, they love the feel of these secrets, how they feel pressed against their skin.
Every Saturday, the wife’s lover is a little less impressed by the husband.
The husband spends Saturday evenings wondering if his wife would be happier with her lover.
The husband’s lover asks if he’s okay and, every Saturday night, holds him when the husband says no.
Every Sunday, the wife finds her lover in the driveway asking if she’s ready.
Every Sunday, the wife’s lover hears no, not yet.
Every Sunday, the husband hears no, not yet, from his hiding spot. In his car around the corner, in a bush, the neighbor’s yard. There’s still time to fix whatever needs to be fixed. Another day, week, month, he tells himself he’ll get to it eventually, when he can figure out what “it” is.
The husband’s lover tries to cheer him up every Monday with muffins and chocolates and promises on how they’ll spend the upcoming weekend.
The wife holds a lit match in front of the word MONDAY on her calendar. Tuesday will be better, she says. This time, he’ll be better.
The wife’s lover buys a burner phone on Mondays. Calls the husband with plans to confess to something, they aren’t sure, but they will know once they hear his voice. They always hang up after the first ring. Throw the phone away with a stranger’s trash.
Every Monday, the husband receives a call from a stranger and considers how lucky he is. How lonely they must be to call him. He thinks about calling his lover to make plans during the week. He thinks about calling his wife, to cancel or reschedule or say something that isn’t planned.
Every Monday, the husband thinks about his wife’s lover who thinks about the wife who wonders if the husband has taken a lover who can give him what she can’t.
And the husband considers calling his wife, even though he knows she won’t answer. About calling his lover, again, even though that’s not who they need each other to be. He considers calling the wife’s lover and imagines asking them if they are ready for this all to end, to be different, to start again.
Avitus B. Carle lives and writes outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is the Associate Editor at Fractured Lit. and Editor at FlashBack Fiction. Her stories have appeared in Passages North, Porcupine Literary, Apiary Magazine, Jellyfish Review, The Offing, and have been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize. She can be found online at http://kbcarle.com or on Twitter @kbcarle.
