Love and Marrige

       

        

“You know, we can fix this. I heard about people going to those marriage counselors. They fix you right up. We can give this another try, hon,” I told her, watching the white line of the highway stretch out before me.

She remained silent. I fucking hated her silent treatment. One day I was going to do something that would make her sorry. An exit loomed ahead, and I took it, determined to find a solution—sure we could make another go at it. The town was decent enough. I pulled the car over beside a diner where people sat talking, laughing, enjoying their meals. Yes, that could be us again, if only she would speak to me.

I didn’t look her way while I googled marriage counselors. I was surprised that a town this size had so many. I called the first one that popped up on my phone, but they told me it wasn’t possible to arrange a session on such short notice. I tried three more; they all said the same. Frustration burned in me. She could’ve been helping instead of giving me the silent bitch treatment. Finally, the last one agreed to see me in half an hour—the time it would take to cross this shitty town.

When I reached the address and pulled into the parking lot, a man was stepping out of his car. I parked beside him, convinced he was the counselor we were supposed to meet.

“Hey, how ya doin’? You the counselor? We might just have to do the session here. She refuses to talk to me,” I said, gesturing toward the passenger seat—where Martha’s brains were splattered across the window, one eye dangling from its socket.