Spilt Milk

Dear Gentle Reader,

This isn’t one man’s story—it’s many. The names change. The ending doesn’t.

Trust your narrator. This story is not real, but it will feel real—because it plays out in nearly 50% of American homes. When the divorce papers arrive—delivered by a stranger or handed to him by his wife—men always ask: Why?

Suddenly, they reexamine the last 5 or 10 or 15 years, searching for the moment. What did he do? He never cheated. He didn’t hit her. Where was the terrible thing that made her leave?

But it isn’t there.

It was the small things. The tiny, steady injuries. Like pearls strung on a thread—clink, clink, clink—they built a necklace too heavy to wear. Or a cell, built one bead at a time. It is slow and steady, how men wear women down. The Grand Canyon was carved by a drip. But a woman is not stone. It doesn’t take a million years. Just five. Or ten. Or fifteen.

Now, dear reader, I will show you the moment a woman decides to leave.

Twelve hours had passed since she left for work. One silent hour driving to the foundry. The car radio was broken. A ten-hour shift, lifting heavy canisters, wheeling them across a warehouse that reeked of oil and heat. She wore black, like the other girls—white turned see-through with sweat. Still, it beat flipping burgers. Better than her father’s body shop.

Then: The commute home, the second hour quiet in her day. The radio, still broken.

Home—if you could call it that—was a one-room apartment with two doors: one in, one to the bathroom. The “closet” was a navy curtain draped over a mound of clothes. A 4-by-5-foot linoleum square marked the kitchen: a fridge, microwave, and sink. No stove. It felt less like a home, more like a fox’s den. A hole. A place to sleep in piles. They’d lived there two years. It was cheap.

Her husband—born William, called Billy by his friends, Bill by her—was on the futon, watching TV. The futon on which they slept. Same place he’d been that morning. Though now, he wore pants.

“Hey. How was work? You smell like smoke. Have you been smoking? I’m hungry. Can you go get Chris’ for dinner?”

The questions flowed easily. She answered only the last.

“Chris’ is expensive,” she said. “I don’t get paid till Friday. What about the Diner?”

It was cheaper. Her friend Melissa was working. There’d be a discount.

Bill picked at his thumb until it bled, then sucked it. “I want Chris’. If you pick it up, it’s cheaper—you don’t have to tip. And you don’t have to get anything for yourself if money’s tight. I’m really thirsty too. I’ll need a drink.”

She reminded him about the last Coke in the fridge. He said he was saving it. When she asked why he didn’t go get more, he said he couldn’t find his wallet. What about the $20 she left on the table? No, he was too afraid to drive without his license. The license in his wallet. The wallet she saw lying next to the futon. He had tried to find but couldn't.

A hostage negotiation followed. She should’ve seen it coming.

Eventually, she gave in. She’d been home an hour, hadn’t even showered yet. There was cereal in the cabinet. She’d just get his food. She’d stop at the gas station, buy him a cold Coke—he only drank them cold. Maybe a whole case, so he’d have some for the week. She’d eat cereal. The milk needed using. He wouldn’t drink it. He could have the last Coke while he waited.

But first: a shower.

He seemed satisfied. He got what he wanted—and more.

She turned the water on. Then: thunk.

The apartment was too small for mystery. She knew the sound came from the kitchen.

Naked, she cracked the bathroom door. Saw him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a widening pool of milk.

“What happened?” she called, not stepping out.

No answer. His face turned red. She shut off the water, put on her robe.

“What happened?” she asked again, quieter this time.

He sat like a child. “It fell. I was getting the Coke.”

She sighed. 

“Hey!” he snapped. “It wasn’t my fault. You put it in the fridge wrong.”

"It's okay, Bill. I'll clean it up." She was talking sweet. Maybe it was an accident. 

His thumb was still bleeding. His breathing, uneven. She stood above him, and he hated the way she looked at him. Towering. Disappointed. He thought: She’s being a bitch.

He’d waited all day. For dinner. For Chris’. Not the Diner. He hadn’t even drunk the Coke—if he drank it, it’d be gone. He’d dressed.  For the store. Was going to get some more. Looked for his wallet. Couldn't find it. What if a cop pulled him over? Did she want him arrested? 

Now she was home, and she didn’t understand. He didn’t want to cry. But the milk stank. All he could think of were cow udders, the hot stink of the fairgrounds, pus on raw teats. She drank that. She always smelled after work. He could smell her now.

He held in the tears. And the vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Dear Gentle Reader,

I must pause here. William, with all his faults, is correct. It wasn’t always this way.

Once, they were sixteen.

She was pretty. Skipped class. Smoked menthols. Worked in her father’s body shop. A chill girl. Billy liked that.

He was soft, for a Southern boy. They called him names—faggot, fairy. But that’s what she liked. He liked books. Music. Art. Not football. The tides were turning; soon, girls in Westwood found him attractive. He used “Romantic” like a scholar. Talked about feminism like it wasn’t a joke. Read about philosophy. He just wasn't like those other guys.

They didn’t date in high school. Later, they both went to college. Reunited there. It started with a concert. A MySpace message:

“Hey Jessica. Long time no see. My favorite band’s playing in Atlanta. I’m looking for someone to go with. I’ll drive. Pay for everything. Your own hotel room too.”

And just like that, it happened.

Minus a few details he’d forgotten to mention.

Like: it was a niche indie band playing every album—including B-sides—over two nights. Hours on her feet. 9 hours to be exact. She won't know the lyrics. Won't scream at the fan-favorites. Everyone else will look so cool. A guy with a gold hoop. A girl with pink hair. This will be his scene.

She will spend most the time tugging at her stained hoodie—the one from her dad’s shop. He liked that she didn’t try too hard.

Afterward, they will share a Long Island iced tea with two straws, like a milkshake. He'll write her a poem on a napkin. Pick a flower. Tell her about bands she’s never heard of. She will like him. She will like him a lot...

And why not?

He is a good guy. He isn't like the other guys. 

That will be her first concert. There would be many more—always his bands. Her music was too mainstream. Lip-synced. A waste of money and time. Eventually, she will agree with him. Say the same to her friend Melissa when asked to go out.

But that was long ago.

They’ve filed joint taxes since. Budgeted his Cokes and her cigarettes. Argued over whose habit was worse. She was trying to quit. Just to end the argument. That's her only motive, he is sure of it.

When you have so little, everything feels like a waste—especially if someone else did it.

A whole gallon of milk on the floor. What a waste.

“Can you hand me another towel?”

Jessica, still in her robe, is on her hands and knees. She smells her own armpit—still rank from work. She’s been home two hours now.

Holding a fresh towel with two fingers—exaggerated, as if it were a soiled diaper—Bill drops it beside her.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m almost done. I’ll go get dinner next.”

And she does.

She puts on sweatpants. A stained hoodie. Lights a cigarette she found in the car. She won’t tell him. She carries a case of Coke in one hand. Milk and Marlboro Lights in the other. She won’t tell him about the pack. She’s supposed to be quitting. She's sick of that argument.

She picks up the Styrofoam container from Chris’. Drives home. The radio still broken. She could fix it. Fixed plenty at her father's shop, but she won’t. She likes the silence. Tired of music, bands, and men who talk about them.

It’s the only silence she gets. Driving. The hour to work, the hour back; now, to the store and back. Always back—to that hole where he is. Her body sore. Her fingers raw. Seventeen hours since she left that morning. She is still stinking of the day.

Maybe, after her cereal, she’ll shower.

Maybe, soon, something will change.

But not tonight.

There isn’t much time between now and when she has to do it all again: commute,  long shift, sweat, drive, smoke, silence, him, Coke, futon, sleep.

Maybe, if she’s lucky, another moment of peace—with a cigarette, in a quiet car. Her days will stack and stack like that, until she files for divorce seven years from that day. When it happens, she doesn't cry but William does. You have to understand—she has never cried over split milk.

Dear Gentle Reader,

Did you see it?

The moment she decided to leave?

If you missed it, you weren’t meant to. That’s how it happens.

Not with screaming. Not with suitcases.

Just a woman, in silence. Holding a dirty towel. Wanting a shower. Buying milk. Smoking again.

She's gone. Seven years before the divorce papers.

He just didn’t notice as he drank a Coke. It was just another Wednesday.