ISTRI TANPA NAFKAH BATIN

Elena

The clock on the mantle was a custom piece—brushed gold, silent, and excruciatingly precise. I had watched the minute hand sweep across the dial for three hours, three minutes, and twelve seconds.

I sat at the head of the dining table, my spine perfectly straight, the way my mother had taught me. A dainty woman, she used to say, never let her back touch the chair. It was a rule I followed as religiously as the others. never raise your voice, never let your hair frizz, and never, under any circumstances, let the world see that you are anything less than cherished.

The Coq au Vin had long since stopped steaming. A thin, translucent film had formed over the red wine reduction, dulling the vibrant color I’d worked so hard to achieve. I’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, the heat of the stove wilting my silk blouse, all to ensure that when Marcus walked through the door, he would be met with the olfactory proof of my devotion.

7:00 PM had been the goal. 8:00 PM had been the hopeful buffer.

It was now 10:14 PM.

I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I adjusted the placement of his crystal water goblet by a fraction of an inch. Everything had to be symmetrical. Marcus hated disorder. He said that a chaotic home was the sign of a chaotic mind, and he had spent seven years "curating" mine.

I caught my reflection in the darkened window across the room. I looked exactly as he wanted me. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, low bun, not a single black coil out of place. My makeup was natural, the kind that took forty minutes to apply to ensure my skin looked poreless but unpainted. I was wearing the pearls he’d given me for our third anniversary. They felt like cold, heavy pebbles against my throat.

The sound of the garage door rumbling open made my heart skip—not with excitement, but with a sharp, familiar jolt of adrenaline. I stood up quickly, smoothing the front of my skirt, checking my reflection one last time to ensure my smile was practiced and pleasant.

I heard his footsteps first. Heavy, rhythmic, and purposeful. When the door from the mudroom opened, the scent of the city—exhaust, cold air, and stress—invaded the lavender-scented sanctuary I’d maintained.

"Marcus," I said, my voice soft and melodic, the perfect pitch of a dutiful wife. "Happy anniversary, darling." A big smile on my face.

He didn't look at me. He was already unbuttoning his overcoat, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the hallway mirror. He looked tired, yes, but there was a sharp energy to him, a restlessness that usually spelled trouble for my evening.

"It's late, Elena," he said. His voice was a smooth baritone, the kind that commanded rooms and silenced juries.

"I know, darling.” I reply moving around the table. “Anyway I kept dinner warm for as long as I could," I said, before moving toward him to take his coat. I reached for it, but he stepped past me, draping it over the banister himself. A small rejection, but it landed like a slap. I ignored it, straightening my dress again. "I made the Coq au Vin. Your favorite."

He finally turned to look at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, my hair, and finally the table behind me. He didn't smile. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to vibrate with disappointment.

"You're still wearing those pearls," he noted, his voice flat.

I touched them instinctively. "Yeah, they’re my favorite.” I say, the smile back on my face. “You said you liked them."

"I liked them three years ago, Elena. Tonight, they look... dated. A bit desperate for attention, don't you think?"

The air felt thin. "I just wanted to look nice for our night."

"Our night?" He walked into the dining room, looking at the meticulously set table as if it were a crime scene. He picked up one of the silver forks, inspected it for spots, and set it back down with a quiet clink. "Elena, I’ve been in back-to-back depositions since eight this morning. My head is pounding, and the last thing I want to do is sit through a four-course production of 'The Happy Couple.'"

"It’s our seventh anniversary, Marcus. I thought—"

"That’s your problem," he interrupted, turning to face me. He didn't raise his voice; he never had to. The quietness was his weapon. "You 'thought.' You decided what I wanted without bothering to ask. You spent all day hovering over a stove, indulging in this domestic fantasy, while I was out in the real world securing our future. And now you expect me to perform for you because you made a chicken?"

"It’s not about the chicken," I whispered, the anger finally beginning to simmer beneath my ribs, a hot, foreign coal. "It’s about us. We haven't had a real conversation in weeks. We haven't... you haven't touched me, Marcus."

He let out a short, dry chuckle. "And whose fault is that? Look at you, Elena. You’re wound so tight I’m surprised you haven't snapped. You stand there like a porcelain doll, waiting for me to wind you up, and then you wonder why I find the prospect of intimacy... exhausting."

"I'm wound tight because I'm trying to be everything you asked for!" The words slipped out before I could filter them. My voice was higher than it should have been. I saw his eyes narrow, the coldness in them hardening into something jagged.

"Is that what you think?" He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could smell the espresso on his breath. "You think you’re doing me a favor by being a martyr? Look at this room. Look at this dinner. This isn't for me. This is for your ego. This is so you can tell yourself you're the perfect wife, the high-achiever who can do it all. But you can't even keep your husband interested in a meal, let alone sex in this marriage."

"That is cruel," I said, my eyes stinging. I hated that I was crying. Crying was "emotional manipulation" in Marcus’s book. It was another sign of my inadequacy.

"No, Elena. Cruelty would be lying to you. Cruelty would be letting you continue to believe that this... this performance of yours is working." He gestured vaguely at my face. "Your mascara is smudging. It makes you look hysterical."

I reached up to wipe my eyes, my fingers shaking. "I'm sorry. I just... I missed you. I wanted tonight to be special."

"Special is a state of mind, not a recipe," he said, turning away from me. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a finger of scotch, ignoring the wine I’d carefully selected. He downed it in one go. "I’m going to the office. I have work to finish, and I can’t do it while you’re standing there looking like a kicked puppy."

"Marcus, please. Don't go. We can just... we can just sit. I’ll clear the table. We don't have to eat this food." I moved toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. I was desperate now, the dainty persona crumbling into something raw and needy. “I can make something else, or we even order in like we used to.”

He pulled his arm away as if my touch burned him. "Don't. You’re being pathetic, Elena. It’s unattractive."

Pathetic. I was standing in a silk dress with tears in my eyes, offering to clean up a cold dinner, that had taken me several hours to prepare. And I was the pathetic one? The absurdity of it should have made me laugh, but instead, it felt like a heavy stone settling in my gut. I looked at the table—the hours of work, the polished silver, the silent clock—and I felt a sudden, crushing wave of exhaustion.

He was right. I was a failure. I couldn't even manage a simple dinner without causing a scene. I couldn't even keep my voice at the proper lady-like register.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, dropping my head. The words felt like ash in my mouth. "You're right. I... I overthought it. I was being selfish."

Marcus stayed silent for a moment, letting my apology hang in the air, letting me soak in the shame of my "outburst." He set the scotch glass down and finally looked at me with a flicker of something that might have been pity, if pity could be cold.

"Apology accepted," he said smoothly. He walked over and patted my cheek… two light, dismissive taps. "Get some sleep, Elena. You look haggard. Not really a fitting look for someone I can call my wife. We'll talk when you've regained your composure."

"Will you be home late?" I asked, eagerly. My voice barely audible.

"Don't wait up. And for god's sake, do something about that chicken. The house is starting to smell like a high school cafeteria."

He turned on his heel and walked out. I stood in the center of the dining room, listening to the sound of his Lexus backing out of the driveway. The silence that followed was louder than the argument. It was a physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders until I had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.

I looked at the two plates. Mine was untouched. His had one smear of sauce on it.

I didn't cry anymore. The tears had dried, leaving itchy salt trails on my cheeks. I slowly began to blow out the candles, one by one. With each flame that died, the room grew colder, more shadowed.

I picked up his crystal goblet, the one I had adjusted by a fraction of an inch, and threw it against the far wall.

It didn't shatter the way it does in the movies. It hit the baseboard with a dull, heavy thud and rolled across the hardwood, miraculously intact. Even the glass in this house was too well-bred to break.

I sank into my chair, the silk of my dress rustling in the quiet. I reached out and took a piece of the cold chicken with my fingers, shoving it into my mouth. It tasted like nothing. It tasted like the last seven years.

I stared at the gold clock on the mantle. 10:42 PM.

"Happy anniversary, Elena," I whispered to the dark.

I sat there for a long time, a dainty, high-achieving woman in a perfect house, waiting for a life that was never going to come home.

I didn't move until the clock chimed eleven, a clear, mocking sound that echoed through the halls. I stood up, my movements stiff and robotic, and began to clear the table. I scraped the expensive food into the trash, polished the silver, and wiped down the mahogany until it shined like a mirror.

By the time I was finished, the house looked as if no one had ever been there at all.

I went upstairs, brushed my hair exactly one hundred times, and lay down on my side of the

bed. I kept my eyes open, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. I stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, making sure I didn't wrinkle the sheets on his side.

I had to be perfect. If I wasn't perfect, I was nothing. And as the hours ticked by toward morning, I realized with a terrifying clarity that I was already halfway there.

And my husband didn’t spend the night home… once again.