An Invitation

*Anna*

My husband doesn’t snore.

I know this because I lie awake for hours every night, thinking about him. Hoping that, when I do eventually fall asleep, I will dream of him.

How cruel is reality that I spend so many hours in his presence every night wishing I could be in his arms and rarely even manage to conjure a dream where that comes true?

Once, I dreamt of our wedding night, not the real one where we’d climbed into the back of the limousine Grandma Trudy had paid for and were whisked away to a fancy hotel in another town only to stay in two separate bedrooms in a grand suite and rarely catch glimpses of one another as we navigated the unfamiliar space, but the one I wished we’d had.

In my dream, my husband carried me off to bed, kissing me soundly, before ripping my wedding dress from my quivering body and making passionate love to me. I’d felt every caress, every touch, every kiss. The weight of his muscular body on top of mine–even the thrill of having such a handsome man inside of me.

At least, I imagine that’s what it must feel like. I honestly don’t know. I married Grant a virgin, and now, over a year later, I am a virgin still.

I like to think he is one also, but I know that’s not likely. Grant is such an attractive man, with dark hair and broad shoulders, he has had many girlfriends in the past. Including that bitch Barbara.

The thought of Grant in bed with that horrible woman makes my stomach churn. I roll over, letting out a groan, and pull the blanket over my shoulder.

“Anna?” 

I think I hear Grant whisper my name again and freeze. Surely not. He has to be fast asleep by now. After all, he came out of the bathroom over two hours ago. I listen, wondering if he will say my name again, but he doesn’t. 

Perhaps he is having a dream and needs me to get a stain out of his shirt or to fetch something from the market from him.

Ironically, my husband, the one person who could be asking me to run such errands, never asks me for such assistance. In fact, he never asks me for anything at all.

I wish he would. I’d like to prove to him that I am a capable wife, one worthy of his love and devotion.

Instead, I’m left running around like a trained monkey trying to please his family members, people that will never be pleased.

My alarm goes off too soon. I blink a few times before reaching for my ancient cell phone, the same one my mother bought me when I was in high school–second hand–and smack it a few times until it stops singing. I stretch, sitting up, and rub my eyes, thankful that Grant is likely in the shower.

When I turn my head, my husband is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking directly at me.

My eyes widen in horror as I imagine what I must look like–disheveled, my hair standing on end, no doubt, my nightclothes wrinkled. My mouth drops open, and a small smile curls up the edge of his mouth. “Anna?” he says, tentatively. “How did you sleep?”

My forehead scrunches. I can’t remember him ever asking me that question before. “Fine,” I manage, my voice sounding suspicious to my own ear. “And you?”

Grant shrugs and changes the subject. “I have something I’d like for you to do for me tonight.”

My ears perk up. He’s never asked me to do anything for him before, not that I recall, anyway. “Yes?”

“Will you please attend the family dinner with me tonight?”

His dark eyes stay glued to my face as I try to decipher his meaning. I want to ask him why he’d like for me to be there–but I’m his wife. It’s not my place to question him. Instead, I nod obediently. As much as I hate family dinner, I will do it for him. If he’d like for me to sit through a two hour ordeal of being made fun of, then so be it.

His smile widens, and he stands. He’s fully dressed, which is unusual for this time of day. Normally, he gets out of the shower about the time I am waking up and leaves the room as I go about my morning routine. Today, it seems, he’s gotten ready earlier than normal. 

“Is everything all right?” I call after him as he approaches the bedroom door.

Nodding, he turns around. “Yes, I just have a meeting early this morning. Mr. Savage is being, well, savage, and Grandmother Trudy wants me to try to convince him to let us have the property she’s after.”

“I see.” I don’t really–this is the most anyone in the family has ever said to me about work. I do overhear bits and pieces, and I know that the family hates Mr. Savage, but that’s all I know. “Well, I’m sure you will do an amazing job,” I tell my husband. “Knock ‘em dead. Or… something.” Does that sound right?

It must not because Grant chuckles. “Thanks, Anna. Have fun today. Doing… whatever you do during the day.” He walks out the door, closing it behind him, and I fling myself backward onto my pillow.

I’m such a failure! Why did I have to add, “Knock ‘em dead?” And then even worse, “or something”? He must think I don’t even speak the same language as him.

My husband thinks I am a laughing stock, and he’s not wrong.

I manage to pry myself from the couch and stagger into the bathroom. Just when I thought something might be different, that my husband might actually want to spend time with me, I have to go and say something idiotic. He will probably mention it at dinner and have everyone laughing at me. 

It’s not like Grant to do something like that, but I’m certain someone will bring it up–and laugh at me.

When I see my reflection in the mirror, I’m mortified. My hair is standing up all over my head. I look like I slept in a windstorm. Cringing, I try to straighten it, but the damage is done now. My husband has already seen me looking like a clown.

I’m a colossal failure. Maybe Grant deserves someone better after all.