A Sculpture of Carved Glass

The suitcase in my hand is too light. I pretend to struggle anyway. Every stair becomes a hurdle, the creases and folds in the carpet a yawning mouth starved for my leaden feet. When I collide with my wife for the second time, she flashes me a glance, amusement and anticipation stark beneath the glare of the fluorescents. I squint against the oppressive brilliance and wish the long stretch of hall was dim. With the light comes a feeling exposure. I want to cover myself, to layer thick wool sweatshirts over my tuxedo. The jacket’s fabric is scratchy; it claws at my throat and irritates my skin. An itch begins on my arms and travels to my chest, legs, and feet. Even my toes are irritated, strangled in the sleek loafers I had purchased only yesterday afternoon. I smother the urge to toss the damn things out the nearest picturesque window. Sweat beads on my brow and wets my palms. The fingers grasping my suitcase are white. The bones of my knuckles attempt to escape their thin blanket of flesh; they protrude severely from my clenched fist. I am a carved sculpture of glass about to shatter.

We arrive at our room. The card key is in the front clasp of her purse. Weighed down by her heavier suitcase she has difficulty reaching it. I should help her, this woman who I recently pledged to honor and cherish above all others. I don't. Prolonging our struggle in the hall is far preferable to what awaits me in our suite. Her cheeks redden at the subtle rejection. The color is unflattering sunburn. It emphasizes her freckles and the thin white line beneath her chin. After two unsuccessful tries she manages to insert the key. Reluctance slows my steps as I enter the suite's throat. It is all very upscale.  My wife releases a coo of delight over the decor. I do not share in her excitement. Murder crimson entombs us. The plush couches appear eager to devour unsuspecting guests. Heavy-framed pictures gilded with flakes of artificial gold lurk on the walls. One features a couple with too-bright smiles posing on a nondescript beach. They could be anyone, just another anonymous pair adhering to the unwritten expectations that made me buy loafers yesterday afternoon. The sour thought convulses my stomach and I turn my attention elsewhere.

A bed dominates the far wall. It is an obscene size and seems to grow with every passing second, engulfing the suite until little else remains. The mattress is covered by a duvet the uninviting hue of mud; the pillows are decorated with an annoying pattern of swirls. My temples throb. Everything in this honeymoon suite is overbearing. I kick off my loafers and free my tie, hoping to lessen the oppressive atmosphere. Far from relieving me, the shed of clothes leaves me horribly vulnerable. The carpet beneath my feet is rough. It scratches against the thick cotton of my socks. I long for the cool wood of the hotel lobby.

My wife sets her suitcase on the floor and flops on the bed. It is a graceless action. The mattress squeaks in protest. The sound draws my unwilling gaze. She leans back, tossing her mess of curls over her shoulder. Her thighs are spread. I can see the putrid veins of irritated stretch marks, unattractive pink ridges of broken skin hastily mended. Further up peeks the flaming orange of her underwear. She notices the direction of my eyes and slowly runs a foot up her leg, inviting my stare. Resting on her elbows, her chest thrust proudly in the air, her legs unabashedly open, she should be enticing. She isn't. Sweat runs in small rivulets through the creases of her face. Her cheeks are a little too round, plumped from an excess of food, a pig fattened for the slaughter. Her nose has a slight hook that makes her appear birdlike, and her left eyebrow is shorter than her right. Her braless breasts sag without support. Lines of exhaustion and nerves have left her face a haggard corpse of the fatigued. She does not stir my blood; she chills it. The sight of her is repugnant.

"Why don't you come to bed, Leo?" Her voice is a sultry rasp. The question is abrasive. Invisible pins gore my flesh, piercing and cleaving without mercy. The bed consumes the room. Bloody red embalms us. The dim lighting of the suite lends an intimate cast. I yearn with sudden gut-wrenching intensity for the piercing glare of the hall.

She becomes more daring when my gaze does not move; she twines her leg with mine and draws me closer, a dog on a leash of his own making.

I am a sculpture of carved glass. I force my lips to curve apologetically and murmur a polite excuse. The small effort threatens to crack my cheeks. She pouts, thrusting out her bottom lip and reaching for me with greedy fingers. The feel of her warm flesh against mine viciously twists my stomach. Staggering, a blistering vile coating on my tongue, I tear from her grip and stumble to the bathroom. There I pant, my chest thrashing as I slam the door shut, closing my view to the repulsive scene on the bed.

I'm shaking, the enormity of my situation suffocating me. The calloused hands of panic claw at my windpipe and refuse to let go. Desperate for air, I yank off my tie. Already loosened it falls to the floor. That accomplishes precious little. Finger trembling, I fumble with the buttons on my tux. The clasps have multiplied by the dozens, becoming glued to the fabric and tangled within each other until I can’t separate one from another and I want to scratch my fingers raw until the buttons come undone. Finally I discard finesse and rip the damn thing off, gasping when voracious black circles swallow my vision. The silk undershirt is next. It clings to the sweat on my bare chest and emits a slick wet sound of suction when I jerk it off.

I brace myself against the bathroom’s sink. It’s marble with artistic freckles of blue and green. It’s cool beneath my hands. I grip the edges tighter, feel the dulled ends dent the skin of my palms. The almost-pain is a relief. I squeeze harder and watch the violent dance of veins on my forearms as they bulge and relax. I want to stand there forever, there at the sink, bare-chested, the cool marble slicing into my hands as my heart stutters and my breath escapes in ragged groans and the bathroom door shields me from the sight of my new wife who expects me to fulfill out marriage vows. I just want to stand here in this bathroom until this awful farce of a honeymoon is over.

“Leo?” There is a rap on the door. “Darling, are you alright?”

I shudder and croak, “Fine. Just freshening up.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her voice wavers, uncertainty stealing her confidence at the harshness in my voice before bravado steadies her tone. “I’ll be waiting for you.” The last is a husky purr. I want to burn my ears.

I do not reply and eventually she goes away. The tension in the air lessens only slightly at her disappearance. Still my muscles spasm, anxiety a sliver of shrapnel shredding my intestines.

I cannot go through with this. I realize that now. All my past hopes have been ground to ash. Any delusional confidence has slunk into the shadows, disintegrating in the glaring spotlight of this irrefutable proof. I cannot sleep with my new wife. The idea alone chills my blood to ice. Her hands are too slim, her lips too full. Her tangle of curls too long, her face too clean. She is too short, her features too delicate, her breast and the juncture of her thighs a forceful reminder of her femininity. My mind shudders at the thought of climbing into bed with her. I cannot smell her foreign female perfume, feel her soft, smooth skin slide against mine and lose myself in the blissful release I have heard others describe with such enviable clarity.

I study my reflection in the mirror. Chiseled fatigued features. Skin as white as the bathroom tiles, as white as the marble sink with the artistic freckles of blue and green. Eyes sightless with a crazed desperation and a terrible resignation. Vacant expression blank of hope. I am a sculpture of carved glass that has shattered, suspended in the eternal moment of pieced destruction and the inevitable crashing descent of a thousand broken shards. I study my reflection in the mirror as bare-chested I clench the dulled edges of the marble sink with artistic freckles of blue and green, and I consider.

Do I glue together a disjointed statue and slip between the covers with my wife? Or do I melt the fractured remains into a new chunk of glass and carve from it another person?

“Leo?” I have waited too long; my wife has returned. “Are you coming to bed?”

Are you Leo? Are you coming to bed?

My hands release the sink in a sudden rush of clarity.

“Leo?”

I breathe deeply. Gather the shattered remains of glass. And open the door.