Spousal Duty

Joyce always believed that marriage was about the little things.

Shared coffee in the quiet mornings, holding hands on a walk. Not to mention the tiny, unglamorous sacrifices no one posts about on social media. Other wives complained when their husbands left the toilet seat up, but the thought made her smile, thinking of her own nightly ritual.

She hummed softly as she tied on her apron. It was the cheerful floral one with the plastic lining. “Ready, darling?” she called through the closed bathroom door.

A low, muffled grunt answered. Yes, then.

She fished out a small brass key and unlocked the door, stepped in, and locked it behind her. An unnecessary step in their own home, she thought, but he was particular.

Her husband, Harold, sat straddling the closed toilet lid, wearing nothing but his undershorts. The white of his briefs looked yellow under their cheap bathroom lights, and she could see the elastic waistband fraying. His hunched back was to her, and she could see his broad shoulders trembling faintly. She knew he didn’t enjoy the process and she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze of support. The air was damp and smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic. Joyce pretended not to notice.

“Such a trooper,” she cooed, fetching her pliers and a small glass jar from the sink. She had sterilized everything, of course. Cleanliness was next to godliness.

“Thanks again, Joycey,” Harold rasped. His voice was husky tonight, with a faint rattle around the vowels. “I’d never blame you if you, you know…if you got sick of this.”

“Nonsense,” she smiled, cheerful as ever. “For better or worse, remember?”

He made a wet sound in his chest that might have been a chuckle.

She moved behind him, surveying the landscape of his back. She lovingly ran a hand through the thinning hair on his head and then let her hand fall as she glanced down. One might call it a skin condition, she mused. Up close, though, that was being generous. In uneven patches his flesh looked too thin, broken by seams where it bulged like rising bread dough. Beneath the surface, she saw the faintest wriggling.

“I just had my nails done,” Joyce gestured as she pulled on her rubber gloves. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Harold replied.

She smiled. “Let’s get started.”

Tonight, the first one came loose with only a small tug—a pale, jelly-like nub extruding from between his shoulder blades. She dropped it into the jar with a soft, wet plop.

“How was work today?” she asked casually, as though they were chatting over tea.

“Better than yesterday,” Harold said, wincing as she pinched another lump. “Not as many -unngghh – pointless meetings. Still some, but then none of that will matter when, well, you know.”