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Popcorn walls appear like stars when exhaustion is palpable.
The dishes are scrubbed with vigor as you take out your frustration on the poor plates. The cups, which say positive messages on them, lay upside down on the drying rack, courtesy of how you’re feeling inside. The soap keeps getting on your shirt. The water is obsessed with your face. Your exhaustion is the devil on your shoulder refusing to let go.
You have to blink to stop the tears from falling.
It’s just dishes, except it’s not. It’s the cultivation of late nights of having to soothe little cries, early mornings that arrive with no sleep to prepare you for them, and afternoons littered with endless chores. It’s so hard to see why you wake up at all.
But you feel arms wrap around your waist and a voice that has kept you afloat these past few days. Rafayel doesn’t say a word when he places his head on your hair, only humming a tune so familiar your nerves instantly calm down. You have to close your eyes to avoid having your irritation take over and ruin a tranquility so rare in this life of yours.
“Rafayel.” His name is said with so many emotions at once, for you cannot ever hide anything from him. “I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy,” he says, and you open your eyes when you realize there’s a hint of a whine in his voice. It’s amusing as it is irritating even though you know it isn’t his fault at all. It’s just life hitting you with its stick and asking you to bear the responsibilities it gives you, but it’s much easier to blame a person than a concept.
“If you weren’t always painting, then maybe I would actually have a chance to rest.”
It’s a jab that’s so sharp it stabs your heart as soon as it escapes your lips. You hear your husband’s breath as it catches, the sharpness of the blade stabbing him as well, and for a moment you’re too prideful to say sorry. Popcorn walls appear like stars, and insults appear like remedy to the exhaustion.
But to your surprise, Rafayel doesn’t let go of your waist. He doesn’t make a fire that burns you in order to retaliate. Instead, you feel his lips graze the skin of your neck and hear the soft breaths he takes, as if afraid he would burn you.
“Is that what you want?” he asks huskily. “I’ll stop painting, then. I-I’ll help you out with the chores!”
You already do, you want to tell him. Your husband, ever since you both became parents, has dedicated more of his time towards maintaining this house with you. Seldom do you ever see him with a paintbrush in his hand anymore, and seldom do you ever see him complain about that. I’ve found my love in parenting, he once told you as he held you through tears of frustration, And I’m so grateful you gave me that gift.
“I’ll wash these dishes for you. I’ll cook and clean and run around with our baby-”
You already do, repeats in your head.
“And I’ll make sure you don’t even have to lift a finger, my love!”
Rafayel says that with so much conviction, like a god backed by a devotee of unwavering faith or a father with so much love that even his heart can’t contain it. You turn your head slightly when his lips fall to your shoulder, relaxing like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else besides your stained, soaked shirt.
You have to blink to keep the tears at bay, but they fall anyway. Not even emotions want to hide from such a lovely man. “Rafayel…”
He opens his eyes to see your tears, and immediately he falls into action. You find yourself spinning like a lover in a dance before you collapse, where he catches you and the tears that fall. Now his shirt is soaked from your tears and wrinkled with how hard you’re gripping it, but like usual, you don’t hear a word of complaint. Only a hum of that familiar song escapes his lips alongside sweet nothings laced in reverence.
“I know you’re tired,” he says, and oh, how much you long for him to understand the severity of the fact. “I’m here. I’ll be your shoulder to cry on.”
“B-but…” you sniffle. It’s gross and imperfect, yet your husband doesn’t mind. “But I’m mean. I-I said you should stop painting, and that you should step up and I… I don’t mean that.”
His hand now caresses your hair, painting you in his hold. “I know you don’t,” he whispers, and it sounds like music coming out of him. “I understand. It’s okay.”
“But I’m… I’m mean and ungrateful and-”
“Why are you talking about my wife like that?” he asks. You look up from where you were nuzzling to see the anger that matches the tone of his question. His bluish-pink eyes, reminiscent of the sunset, cloud with darkness even when his caresses on your cheeks are anything but. “You’re not any of those things, my love, and even if you were, I would understand.”
You shake your head. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says. The conviction is as stormy as his eyes, prominent and all for you. “I would give the world to you. You should know that by now.”
Do I deserve the world?
“You deserve the world,” he says before you can even ask. Rafayel has a flair for not only reading your emotions, but also reading the thoughts you refuse to say aloud. You hold onto him with all of the apology you can muster. Maybe later, after a true good night’s rest, you can say the word “sorry” with ease. The anger will be at bay someday — maybe not tonight, but a day resulting from the monotony of the present — and the love that you once so freely gave will easily pour out of your heart and onto Rafayel’s.
“I love you,” you hear him whisper in your hair. “I appreciate all the work you always do, and I’m sorry I haven’t made it easier.”
“You have!” The protest is loud yet muffled by his chest and your tears. “Don’t say that!”
He merely smiles and continues humming while rocking you gently. The kitchen no longer feels like a prison; it is now a witness to the tranquility created by mutual understanding.
And soon, it welcomes a new guest in its heavens. “Mama, Papa, are you dancing?”
You have been long asleep in Rafayel’s arms, and he’s in the middle of lifting you up bridal-style when your son runs over to you both. Shirt stained from painting with his sister, hair disheveled in different directions like a genius in the works. His eyes are just like yours, Rafayel thinks, and it takes him a few moments to answer.
“You could call this dancing, but Mama’s asleep, so I guess it’s more like swaying.”
“Swaying?” he asks, curiosity in his eyes.
“Mhm. Like the wind.”
“Ah.”
By now, your sleeping form is in Rafayel’s arms, and he smiles at the sight. You’re resting after years of not doing so, and it makes his heart flutter.
“I’ll take Mama to bed, okay? I’ll join you soon.”
And the child, who sees the stars in his parents’ love, runs off to the studio and waits there with his sister.