NineToFive

I dropped my cigarette into the styrofoam cup nestled in the cars built-in holder. I enjoyed the satisfying hiss it made when it sunk into the cold coffee sloshing in the bottom. Or, I would have if some prick hadn't off blown his horn at precisely that moment. I flicked my gaze to the rear-view mirror and scanned the queue of cars stretching out behind me, polished metal roofs glinting in the early evening sunlight. The cu;prit was two cars back in the lane to my left. A brown-haired guy with a sharp suit, slapping his hand against the steering wheel and yelling silently behind his windscreen. I pried my eyes away bitterly and ran a hand through the sparse crop of greying hair on my head. I'd probably looked exactly like him once. New suit, new car. A shiny new watch on my wrist, ticking, tocking and screaming at me "YOU'RE LATE!". That had been thirty years ago. Give two, or three. Now I had an old suit, an old car. My watch was a dull thing with a faded leather wriststrap, a birthday present from my wife six or seven years ago. I glanced at it, and sure enough it was telling me the same thing as always. I was late. My wife was going to kill me.

This was going to be our seventh session of marriage counselling. I thought it had been a stupid idea at first. Another waste of time and money trying to salvage something that was broken. I could never say no when she cried though. Still couldn't, or else I wouldn't be sitting in this traffic. I snapped my thumb against the steering wheel. I'd thought the first session was going to be me sitting their while these two women sunk their fangs in. Berating me for not being at home, for not helping with the housework, for not being home in time for the schoolrun in the evening. I'd prepared myself for it. Irony is, it was me that did all the talking. Martha just sat there and listened, face blank and pale while our therapist, Julie, scratched little notes onto a pad. That pissed me off. She had a laptop sitting on the desk beside her. I could hear the fan whirring ceaselessly, and it made those scratches all the more annoying. Was it some kind of pretension thing, sticking to the ol' pen and paper? I ended up snapping, but I snapped at Martha, instead. Snapped at how she never bothered to make an effort any more when we did go out, how she'd stopped walking the kids to school and now drove them. She'd gotten fat, I said - shouted. She'd just sat there, silent. Eventually I stopped, too exhausted and mind-numb too continue. I looked at Julie, but she was looking at Martha.

"And how does that make you feel, Martha?" She hadn't said anything. Julie had turned to me. "How do you think that makes Martha feel, Stuart?"

The light turned from red to green. I dipped the accelerator and edged forwards a few meters before they slipped back to red again. The guy a few cars back - I'd taken to calling him Pinstripe, even though his suit was plain grey - slammed his horn again. I pushed my head back against the headrest and spun through the radio channels. An assortment of weather announcements (MILD TEMPERATURES WITH CHANCE OF LIGHT RAIN) and bass-heavy pop songs. I gave up. A faceless female voice was speaking over some soft, jovial music. 'ENTER TODAY FOR A CHANCE OF WINNING 2,000 POUNDS and a dream holiday! JUST SEND YOUR NAME AND ANSWER TO THE NUMBER GIVEN AND YOU'LL BE ENTERED INTO OUR holiday PRIZE DRAW! JUST ONE TEXT AND ALL YOUR DREAMS COULD COME TRUE!' Not bloody likely. The womans voice faded out to be replaced by a song. I recognized it vaguely. It added to my frustration. Did the people entering those competitions really think a few grand would save their shitty, broken lives? A sprinkle of shiny pennys and their kids would stop throwing a tantrum when you wouldn't buy them the latest Miley Cyrus CD, or that their wives would stop bitching about the rubbish before you even untied your laces? Fat fucking chance. The thing people don't seem to notice about holidays is that they won't make you happy. It's just the same, shitty, miserable you surrounded by people you hate. The only thing that text will achieve is to show you that no matter where you go, no matter how beautiful and hot it is, that your life is still shit.

It wasn't until the third session that Martha finally opened up. She had cried this time, but it hadn't been angry. That I could have coped with. It hadn't even been sad. It had been hopeless. She'd asked me, mascara staining her cheeks and cheeks pale white, what I wanted. I'd stared at her, mouth working silently but unable to produce any sound. I didn't know what I wanted. A few pain pills, maybe? To curl up in a ball and cry myself, even? In the end that was what I said: 'I don't know'. I can think of a thousand things I could have said now. Could have said even on the drive home. Instead I'd sat in silence, hands wrapped so tightly on the wheel that my knuckles had turned white. She'd turned her head away from me so I couldn't see she was still crying. Every now and then I caught a glimpse in the windows reflection, though. I slept on the couch that night, for both of our sakes. And you know what? I didn't cry myself to sleep. In fact, I slept like a baby. I remember waking up and thinking that it had been the best nights sleep I'd had in months. That made me feel horrible. I think that's just how it is these days, though. We can watch our loved ones cry and still sleep soundly. Because suffering has become an exhibition. Something to watch on television. And sure, we'll shed a silent tear when we find out 'HE IS YOUR FATHER!', we all do, secretly. I'm not different. But when your loved one sits in front of you, eyes bloodshot and red, snot dribbling from her nose and hands clutching at your trouser leg, begging, pleading with you to tell her what you want we just stare at them like they are part of that television screen. Then, when the show is over and all the characters disappear we lay down and go to sleep. Then we wake up in the morning, pull on a fresh shirt and go to work. And when people at work ask how we are, what do we say? 'Yeah, good thanks.' Because none of it has really sunk in, has it? Besides, we all know that when someone asks you if you're alright they're expecting a 'yes'. Have you ever said no and watched a persons face? Sure they'll stick around, shoot the shit with you about how your life is wasting away while you sit and smoke Lucky Strike's with your pals down the pub. But all they really want to do is shuffle their papers and go on with the day. They asked, you said good - so on with the day! Saying no is taboo. Real life, emotion? All that stuff is for the television, man. Suck it up and get on with it. We've all got our problems.

I glance at my mirror again and see that Pinstripe is gone. Must have turned off at the last junction. I'm surrounded by new faces now. A portly gentlemen not much older than me yapping into his phone. There is a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. I wonder if that is how people see me? A fat old man sweating in the car, even though his aircon is on HIGH. I turn away and close me eyes for a few moments.

Something shudders. I blink rapidly and look down at my lap. My screen is glowing, and the tiny black phone is shuddering violently.

I read the display.

'MARTHA CALLING...'

I hesitate.

The traffic starts rolling forwards, and I miss the call. It goes to voicemail.

"Staurt. It's Martha." As if I don't know, I think sourly. I pick up.

"Hey, honey, I'm stu-"

"Don't call me that, Stuart. Where the fuck are you?"

"Sorry, hon- Martha. I'm stuck in traffic on-"

"Traffic? I thought you said you were leaving early."

I chewed the end of my cigarette. My head was throbbing. I could already see where this was going. "I had to stay late. There was a problem with a client, an emergeancy. I couldn't just leave." I paused, but she doesn't say anything. I wiggle my phone, anxious, and the screen lights up and reveals the connection is still good. "I'm only a block away. I won't be long. I promise."

"Where were you really?" She says it slowly, pronouncing each syllable in a flat, toneless voice that has come to summarize our marriage.

"At the office! For Christs sake, how many times do I have to tell you? There's nothing going on!"

"Where were you on Saturday, then!? You said you'd pick up Louise at six. You promised her, Stuart, for fucks sake!" She was shouting, now, and I had to move the phone away from my ear. "You know what the saddest fucking thing is, Stuart, Do you?"

"What?" I close my eyes and rest my head on the stearing wheel.

"Don't you what me! Who the fuck do you think you are? She didn't even cry this time. She just sat by the window until she had to go to bed. Not a word. And what was I supposed to say to her anyway?" She had stopped yelling now. Her voice was cracking a little. She was crying. "I'm sorry that Daddy didn't come and pick you up today, petal, but he was too busy at work. He spends a lot of time at work. Especially since he kissed that pretty blonde intern at the Christmas party. But don't worry about that, petal, he still loves us very much. He bought you all those lovely toys, after all, didn't he?" She stifles a sob. I realise I have tears on my own cheeks. I don't feel sad, though. Just hollow. "But you don't, do you? I could live with you throwing your money at me while you were off fucking that bitch, I get it, I understand. But your own daughter? You make me sick, Stuart. How could you?"

How could I?

"How could I?" I intoned, anger now boiling over sadness. "Whose fault do you think this is? I'm the one spending all week at work, sweating away in some shitty little office so you can buy the new earrings you want, or the new shoes, or so you can go to the fucking cinema with your friends. And what do I get? A thankyou? No. I don't, do I? All I get is a 'why are you home so late?' or a 'why do you never take me out' - and do you want to know why? It's not because I'm shagging Claire, hell, I kissed her once at a party and I haven't spoken to her since. I don't even like the fucking woman! So no, do you want to know why, Martha? It's because I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you."

Silence.

I dropped my cigarette into my coffee. I got no satisfaction from the hiss.

Still nothing. I gave my phone a wiggle.

The line was dead.

There it is then. The End.

I thought it would feel better than that.

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