My wife bought me a diary for Christmas. Said it’d be good for me to express my feelings. Get them out on paper. I’ve never had a diary before. I don’t know what I’m supposed to write. Do I start it with Dear Diary? Or do I just launch in like I have so far? Do I try to write poetically or just like a conversation? I used to write well once upon a time, with rich descriptions and vivid imagery. Maybe I can channel that here. But what feelings am I to write about, what should I say? I don’t think I have anything. Feelings or things to say.
Maybe I’ll start with a little about myself, like a self-introduction, that’s a good place to begin. I’m David. I’m 48 and happily married for 24 years. Well, I think I’m happily married. We don’t fight that’s for sure. I tell her I agree with her even when I don’t and I listen attentively even when I’m bored. Not that she’s boring. She’s not boring. I didn’t mean that. I like listening to everything she says.
What’s that saying? ‘Happy wife, happy life’… I think that’s true.
I think I’m happy.
I’m not not happy.
I’ve done a lot of thinking since my first entry last month. Maybe she was right about needing a diary to vent my emotions. There’s so much inside of me that feels pent up. So much has been left unsaid over the years. Not even unsaid. Just un-thought. Maybe writing gives me the permission to really feel. Or to really think about how I really feel.
She annoys me.
She sits slumped on the couch and I feel I hate her. I see the fridge door, vandalised by tasteless magnets boasting of destinations she’s traveled to on my dollar, and I want to beat her.
I shouldn’t be writing this. It’s not nice.
Why did she have to buy me this diary and make me explore my emotions? Stupid bitch.
I’m trapped with this woman. This big fat bore. This hideous heap that lies in my bed. That holds me hostage with her insipid chatter. Whose deplorable existence I’m victim to. Personality bland like her ill-favoured visage.
Tolerance of her existence requires levels of willpower I cannot effectually convey.
Who invented the word ‘wife’ and why did I choose to acquire one?
Facebook’s my saving grace.
While she’s having spirited chats on there with people she’s never met about which type of cheese dough works best in a keto-friendly lasagne, I jack-off in the next room to images of women half her age.
Sometimes she calls out to me from the other room when I’m nearing climax, as I scrutinize the supple skinny bodies of pretty young females that look like my wife never did.
And it’s always something particularly asinine that dares intrude on me skinning my dick.
Like, “David, was it last Wednesday or last Thursday that I cooked the tahini-lemon quinoa with asparagus ribbons?” or, “David, how much did we pay for the paleo-friendly pumpkin bread at the Farmers Market yesterday?”
Just once I want to answer, “We didn’t pay for anything, honey, I did.”
But instead, I always pacify her with a matter-of-fact response, so I can resume my pursuit of ejaculation in peace.
PS. My skin-picking’s started again.
PPS. I’m thinking of buying a new suitcase.
She posted on Instagram that the kitchen was her ‘happy place’.
The kitchen is in actuality a toilet. A place of utter necessity, where noises are made and mess happens. And yet to her it’s a venue of ostentation, where she convinces herself that she’s of some use to me and the world. Another fail at justifying her existence in my house.
How I long to paint the kitchen in fresh human excrement, smearing it with my hands across the esteemed Gaggenau wall stove and onto the quantum quartz benchtop she so pridefully plasters pictures of online. I’ve pondered blowing it up entirely, but think that avenue’s somewhat histrionic for me.
I have to collect her dry cleaning tomorrow morning. And she wants me to mow the lawn too.
Did I tell you that at university I’d worked at a cafe in Blaverington? Well, I did and it happened to be situated next door to a brothel. One of the regulars of both establishments, Stavros, an aging olive-skinned man with eyes of jade and a necklace of Jesus, stopped by each week to have a pot of tea on his way home from sampling whatever new vagina was on the roster.
“You’re a smart boy, I can tell,” he’d told me one evening in his thick Mediterranean accent. He’d clearly had too much to drink at the hoehouse, as every time a word left his mouth it looked like it tasted sour.
“But I’m going to give you the most important piece of information you’ll ever hear,” he had announced in a hushed tone.
I remember being intrigued to learn of what sage advice the Adonis would produce in such a time of great incoherence and post-coital stupor.
“Don’t ever spend time with a boring looking woman,” he had declared, looking quite surprised with himself for finishing the sentence without vomit or collapse.
‘That was it?’ I’d thought to myself. ‘Anticlimactic even for a drunken haze.’
“A boring looking woman will have a boring soul. And you don’t want that, my boy,” he’d added.
I don’t remember what I said back. Probably something commensurate with the arrogance of youth, like, “boring woman equals boring soul, got it,” in a sarcastic tone. I remember dismissing his sentiment, nonetheless.
I’d kill Stavros if I saw him now. He should’ve done more to warn me. Old cunt. Why did he have to be so cryptic?
It’s her 45th birthday tomorrow. I’ve organised a party and a cake with her photo on it. I bought her a day spa voucher and that camera she’s been wanting too.
My regret gnaws away at my psyche. When it’s not stalking my thoughts, it whispers in my ears when I try to escape with sleep. Why didn’t I listen to Stavros?
Garbage night tonight.
It made me give it a back rub this morning and then it did what it hadn’t done in years.
It audaciously undressed in front of me and I was witness to the mountainous messy mass of breast and abdominal tissue, pitifully resigned to gravity. Unable to look away from the scene, I watched helplessly as the remnants of a million meals gone by shoveled down in shame and secrecy jiggled and swayed insolently before me.
“Up for some gluten-free pancakes with coconut yoghurt and wild berries?” she had turned to ask me, with a degree of enthusiasm I wish she’d had for sex back when I actually wanted to have any with her.
My only refuge was the delicious image I had concocted in my mind, of cutting her up, fat slice by fat slice, and forcing her to feast on her unrepentant gluttony.
“Am I ever!” I had answered, matching her eagerness and donning a smile whose source was blissfully unbeknownst to her.
I think I’ll be writing regularly from now on.
That’s if they give me more paper.
About The Author
A writer in South Eastern Europe, Miya Yamanouchi holds a Bachelor of Counselling and is a Master of Communication student with a 90 plus average. Her words appear in magazines, books, textbooks, news outlets and literary journals across the globe including Europe, North America, the Middle East, Africa and Oceania.
Her journalistic work can be found at Balkan Insight and The Sarajevo Times where she has reported on post-conflict issues including landmines, mine victims, transitional justice, genocide denial and ethnic tensions. In August 2020, Miya took her first ever creative writing class at university where she discovered a love for writing fiction and poetry. Since then her poetic work has been published in Poets and War, SpillWords Press and Poetry Atlas, while her flash fiction stories can be found at Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and 101 Words.
Her first ever short story, ‘A Tale From The Black Ink Sea’ was published in Drunken Pen Writing followed by SpillWords Press, where it was shortlisted for Publication of the Month. Miya has lived on three continents and an island in the South Sea, and is currently learning her third language. Her writing reflects her multifaceted personality and unique, diverse life experiences.