Allison chipped off her red nail polish, slowly peeling one sliver at a time until her natural pink and white peeked through the jagged cracks. She sat at one end of the brick-hard sofa in the marriage counselor’s office. Her husband (we’ll call him Dick) lounged on the far end, legs crossed, left arm leaning on the leather armrest like he was home watching the six o’clock news.
After a chilly twenty-minute ride from home, they arrived at the counselor’s office together while their ten-year-old son and a teenage neighbor pigged out on a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream and played video games.
Dr. Ross dressed the part of a TV shrink—dark hair peppered with salt, horn-rim glasses, tassel loafers without socks. He sat on a side chair beside his desk, and a small round clock faced away from Allison.
Sucking the oxygen out of the small wood-paneled room, Dick vomited details about boredom in their marriage, their declining sex life, the monotony, year after year, the same old, same old. (Tick-tock) Dr. Ross was either an Olympic listener or asleep with his eyes open. The man didn’t move a muscle or muffle a yawn. Allison chipped and peeled until only her pinkie was left to abuse.
When her husband came up for air, Dr. Ross looked at her with a weak smile and asked, “When you met Dick, what did you love about him?’
Remembering the early days sustained Allison through Dick’s first affair three years before. Still madly in love with him then, she weathered their marriage through his distraction. (Boys will be boys, her mother said) When it was over, he rewarded her with weekly flowers, date nights, and a romantic escape to Italy.
“He made me laugh,” she said.
Now, recalling their past relationship hollowed her. Happy memories, faded from overexposure, would not help her navigate his betrayal a second time. Her patience swiftly raced at neck-breaking speed. Yet, she came every Tuesday night wishing for a miracle—or at least the truth.
“And what about now?”
She dropped the nail chips from her hand, and red flakes floated down, bleeding into the red wool rug.
“We don’t laugh anymore.”
Dick uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. He stared at the Chinese pottery on the Parson’s table across the room. She couldn’t read his face.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Dick, what did you love about Allison in the beginning?”
“It was great. We’d walk into a room of strangers, and everyone wanted her attention and become her friend.”
Was that a smile on his face, or did she imagine it?
“How did that make you feel?”
Dick paused and said, “I was the luckiest guy to be with her. She was exciting.”
“Tell me, what has changed?”
She tugged at a chip too close to her cuticle and licked a thin line of blood. The sharp taste of copper bit her tongue.
“When we go anywhere,” Dick said, “she’s always the center of attention. It’s like I’m not even in the room.”
“I gave up everything for you,” Allison said. “I quit my job when I made more money than you so you wouldn’t feel bad; I left my career when you were sick of my success.” She looked at the doctor. “Imagine being sick of success?”
“Please, Allison, let me continue. Dick, what you loved about Allison at the beginning, now is what you—”
“You’re just like everyone else,” Dick interrupted, “You always take her side.”
Dr. Ross raised his hands like a kindergarten teacher easing a tantrum. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m here to help you understand the problems in your marriage and find a resolution so you can move forward.”
Dick lowered his head and planted his feet on the rug, cocooning his arms around his body.
Every week, at the end of the session, Dr. Ross asked them the same damn question. (Hamsters on a wheel). Allison counted the minutes to get this interrogation over with. “Allison, do you want your marriage to work out?”
“Yes, I do.” She stared at her husband “I want our family to stay together.”
“Dick,” Dr. Ross softened his voice and calmly asked, “do you want your marriage to work out?”
Allison perched at the end of her seat, waiting for his weekly feeble reply; I’m not sure.
Dick remained silent.
“Every week,” the doctor said, “Allison states her intentions clearly, sincerely. Dick, please, give her something definitive tonight.”
Allison jumped to her feet. “Don’t put words in his mouth.” She stood in front of Dick. “Be a man and claim what you want.”
“Please sit down,” Dr. Ross said. She pushed her face into husband's, and a tear rolled down his cheek; she fought the urge to wipe it. “Yes, or no? Do you want our marriage to work out? It’s a one-word answer.”
Dr. Ross rose and tried to usher her to her seat. She shook him off. “I deserve an answer.”
“I’m sorry.” Sobs choked Dick’s words. “I can’t give her up.”
Allison grabbed her coat and left. His sobs followed her down the stairs and into the fresh air.
On the sidewalk, she leaned against the building. People passed her, living their lives as if the world hadn't slipped off its axis, as if this Tuesday was like any ordinary Tuesday night in their ordinary lives.
Holding the car keys in her straggly-nailed hands, she entered the car without waiting for Dick; she fired up the engine and drove straight home—to her son.
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