"What are you trying to say, Adrian? That I'm old and washed up? Clara is more attractive since she's younger and prettier, huh? Are you planning to divorce me and marry her instead?"
I used to cling to him, desperately trying to get an explanation as if my entire life depended on his answer.
But all I ever got in return were more insults.
"Emily, how someone as petty and narrow-minded as you made it this far is beyond me. Would you still be around if I had something going on with Clara? Stop using that stupid brain of yours to obsess over her. You make me sick!"
That's how it always ended.
Any conversation about me disgusted him.
So, when he spat out his insults this time, I didn't argue back. I didn't feel the need to fight. My heart was eerily calm, like the stillness of a quiet lake.
Without a word, I slowly rolled up my sleeves, revealing patches of red, irritated skin and peeling.
I met his eyes steadily and said, "I'm allergic to the ingredients in that hand cream. How am I supposed to use it?"