The Window

He notices something is wrong with his wife as soon as he gets home from work. She doesn't seem her usual self. He believes he can read minds. Besides, his wife is not very good at hiding her feelings. Isn't she wearing a decrepit smile?

"Are you already hungry? Sorry, I had to go check a car."

Without a word, she takes the briefcase from him, places it on his desk and pretends to be busy. Something is definitely wrong. He waits discreetly until she turns around to face him.

She doesn't seem sullen. To his surprise, she has the disconsolate look of a woman who had lost something very valuable to her. And who doesn't want him to know that. Something is hidden behind her clumsily averted eyes. Isn't there also a trace of guilt on her face? As if he didn't notice anything, he turns away from her.

Their bedroom—a small one typical of any average flat—is neat and tidy as usual. There is a wide, dark glass window on its outer wall. The window is closed today. Doesn't his wife always keep it open?

The bedroom window is the only window in their flat. He knows that, if the window were shut, his wife would feel suffocated. She is the one who opens it first thing in the morning and closes it at the end of the day. Today the window is already shut before bedtime.

He looks around the room. Their bed is draped in a tidy white sheet. Their clothes are hanging neatly at the rack next to the bed. He takes note of his wife's light pink sweater that has been there since yesterday. She didn't go out today, he thinks to himself. She doesn't come into the bedroom while he is changing his clothes and surveying the room.

At dinner she remains quiet. The huge rectangular Formica table that can seat ten seems too big for their household of two. There has never been a guest at their flat after all. As usual, they sit together at a corner of the table. The white radish sour soup is steaming hot and delicious. She is an excellent cook—a typical housewife, naïve, simple, and unattractive. To be fair to her, no one would glance at her more than once. He married her because he knew her interests would be confined only to the household and its immediate surroundings.

She doesn't know his monthly income. She doesn't even know she should be inquisitive about it. She only touches the daily grocery money he usually leaves under her pillow. They have a car but she doesn't know how to drive. She goes to places only when he is free to take her out. She doesn't know which bus to take if she wants to go downtown alone. Apart from Bogyoke market, she doesn't know how to get to other places. She doesn't know where her husband's office is, or what he does all day outside. Even though she holds a degree in mathematics, she has no idea how to put a figure on anything.

He wolfs down his meal, while keeping an eye on her. She remains extraordinarily silent. When he left for work before half past seven in the morning, there was nothing wrong with her. What is wrong with her now? There isn't the slightest hint of happiness on her face while her fingers are expertly deboning a piece of fried fish for him. He attempts to cheer her up. He tells her an amusing story he has heard during the day. She replies with a slight smile that looks contrived. She doesn't seem sullen. Whenever she is grouchy with him, she will make her presence felt—she will pull a face or stomp her feet, or make a racket with the utensils until she gets his attention.

This time, she isn't seeking attention to make a statement. She is simply concealing something from him, something serious...