mint does the arranged marriage gain lover(s) at some point?
like, living in a house so big you can hear your name echo through the halls and with a man you'd rather kill with your own two hands than spend half a minute more than you absolutely have to- it gets lonely fast, right?
and the heart is a very dear organ. it yearns for touches, to skip a beat when looked at with love, to beat for another - what'd happen if you just. find someone else to share your love with?
Living without purpose drains a soul. The nights stretch on in a horrid silence, only the sound of your legs against sheets echoing through the room. Your husband sleeps in a different wing, ine equally vacuous and lonely. Masturbation has just become something to fill the days, to lull you to sleep at night, to get you through the dragging boredom. Once a week, you join your husband in his room and it unsettled you how the warmth of his body settles you.
"You've stopped doing your hair," your husband snips during dinner. Other than your obligatory fucks, this is the only time you two share with each other.
He gives you a shriveling look, lip curled in disgust. "Because you like your hair braided."
That gives you pause. You hadn't thought your husband knew anything about you.
"There's no one to see it."
His spoon clatters against the bowl so hard that the maid jumps.
"And you're sleeping entirely too much," he says, picking at you like he wants the usual fight. "I know they call it beauty sleep, but it's doing nothing for your complexion-"
You stir your spoon in your stew. It's sweet corn, a summer jewel. Nothing in this house ever tastes less than extraordinary, but it feels like mush in your mouth.
When your husband finishes, he stands without saying anything. As he passes, he hesitates before reaching out to you, hand placed on your shoulder, neither cupping or patting. Just existing. For a moment, you think he's going to say something, but then he goes. You spend that night in his room, but he's unable to perform in ways that matter.
"How can I when you look so dead?" Your husband complains. "You've made my bed a morgue."
The next week, you husband comes late to dinner, marching in with a huff.
"I expect your hair done for this weekend." He says as he sits himself down. It's lamb, with mint jelly. His favorite, not yours. You'd rather eat nothing. "The seamstress is working on a new gown as well."
A pit opens in your stomach and your fork sticks in the green glob on the edge of your plate. "Another visit from your family?"
"No." His head is ducked unusually low, eyes fixed on his plate. "I've invited those hens you used to cluck with."
It takes you a second to parce that.
"My friends are coming? Here?" It's been months since you've seen anyone from your previous life.
"Well, I figured you should show off the luxury you're now living in," he yammers, feigning pride that doesn't reflect in his face. "Much more impressive than your family's estate. They'll be swooning. Besides, it'll be nice to have some blooming flowers to gaze upon versus... well, you."
His knife cuts through the meat easily, insides a cooked pink. Your husband glances up at you, then looks back down, eyebrows furrowed. It's not his usual distain, but a softer one, a vulnerable one. He's given you something he didn't have to: a kindness.
"Thank you," you say, surprised at your own earnestness.
"I'm merely sick of seeing your sniveling, moping face drag itself around the manor," he shoots back, reflexively. "Like a horse that should be glue."
His knife hits the plate too hard, his emotions let out on the meat.
"Really," you say. "Thank you."
When your eyes meet, there's a hint. Just a whisper. Of softness.
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