The label-maker III

The first time Doris turned away from Bob in their bed, she was twenty-two. They had lain staring at the ceiling for some time, illuminated only by a solitary lamp casting ominous shadows. In one swift movement, and with a deep frown between her brows, she rolled onto the left side of her body to face the wall.

Was it the unsightly tuffs of hair on his knuckles, or was she tired of the way his shoelaces always hung two inches too long over the side of his shoes? Was it the fingerprints he frequently left on the windows as he daydreamed, or was it the way he always ironed the collar before the sleeves that made her resent him? Or was it simply that she had grown weary of being with someone only capable of expressing his thoughts on a label, a sticker, a stamp or a tag? No matter. In that split second when she turned to face the wall, Doris just resented him.

Bob's words continued to drift in and out of her ears, rising and falling, but she heard none. She barely moved. She offered only her back to him. She did not care that there was growing irritation in his voice, and she was not stirred even by his steaming breath against her neck. She only winced once when he pulled out his label-maker to punch out those familiar sounds, thumping out his ritual retreat into his mind: punch— impact— slide— cut. The more she ignored him the faster he typed, and the faster he typed the more resolute she grew. Punch— impact— slide— cut— punch— impact— slide— cut— punch— impact— slide. She stared at the wall unblinking as he churned out his loving-hate one strip at a time — three words, five, six, then two, fifteen letters — and when he stuck them to the base of her spine they were cold and hard like the face of a knife.