The Hardening: A Short Story
In a world that punishes sensitivity, she becomes what he can’t bear to see in himself.
‘I’m not criticising you,’ she says, in a tone that puts you on edge, 'I just want to make things better for us.’
You shake your head and continue looking for your wallet. She follows you into the kitchen.
‘Okay. Okay, look. It’s not a big deal. We'll just do it tomorrow.'
You mumble something about timing, about how everything’s always fine until you’re running late.
She steps closer, but you cross your arms and look around the room.
'Have you seen my wallet?'
Then she sighs and says it again, more quietly: ‘I just feel unheard.’
‘You’re being too sensitive,’ you reply instinctively.
She goes mute, wearing that face that you hate. The big, sad eyes stir something uncomfortable inside you, something you'd rather not examine. The deep crease forming between her brows unsettles you. You want to smooth it away, make her smile again, but you know you can’t fix this. Not now. Something starts to crawl under your skin, though you're unsure why.
You watch as she walks down the street, hips swaying in that skirt you like so much. Her shoulders hunch slightly as she quickens her pace on the uneven cobbles, ankles wobbling in high heels. You shout something light-hearted, but she doesn't look back. A heaviness settles in your chest, as though something precious has slipped from your pocket into the gutter. You get into the car and smack the door closed.
You’d planned to travel to work together, but she ruined it by bringing up emotional labour again.
At lunchtime, you send her a link to a funny video. She doesn’t reply.
That evening, she arrives home later than usual and tosses her satchel onto the settee. She pulls off her hoodie as she gives you a hurried kiss on the cheek, heading straight to the fridge.
‘Absolute waste of a day,’ she grumbles, taking a swig from the milk bottle. ‘Lizzy from HR’s been on one again.’
Milk collects at the corners of her mouth, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. Standing in front of the fridge, she stares blankly at the empty shelves. You stand in the doorway, oddly hollow, not knowing what to say.
She unbuttons her jeans, jogs upstairs. You hear the toilet flush, splashing water, the clatter of toiletries falling onto tiles. She reappears shortly after, in grey sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, settling into the armchair, flicking between TV channels and her phone. You quietly cook your usual quick meal, pasta and canned tuna. She must be tired.
‘I’m off to bed,’ she announces abruptly. You tell her you'll join her later, once you've finished the report that is due tomorrow.
‘Are you coming?’ she calls down impatiently. When you enter the bedroom, she’s sitting fully clothed beneath the harsh overhead light, smiling at something on her phone.
‘Shall we get ready then?’ you prompt, ‘Busy day tomorrow.’
You sit beside her, removing your shirt. Only then does she turn to you, her mouth stretching into an unfamiliar grin. She’s on top of you, her movements like the flick of a jackknife. She grabs at your chest with surprising force. Her body is everywhere –thighs cinched around your torso, squeezing the air from your lungs. Her kisses are too much: wet, insistent, all teeth and pressure. Saliva smears your chin. Her cheek, coarse against yours, leaves a sting behind.
She squeezes your crotch and sighs: ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You are being... too much.’
‘Ok, no worries,’ she shrugs, rolling off you.
Minutes later, her breathing settles into quiet snores. You lie awake, puzzled by her skipping her meticulous bedtime routine. Eventually, sleep takes you, pulling you into uneasy dreams.
You're in a white corridor, lined with doors that shimmer into mirrors as you approach. Each reflection shows her just ahead, walking with purpose, her face obscured. You call out, but your voice is muffled, like you are shouting behind glass. At the corridor’s end, there's one final mirror. She turns, slowly. It's your face staring back. Then the glass ripples, and she's gone – leaving you alone with the warped echoes of yourself.
In the morning, her voice wakes you abruptly: ‘Don’t forget Nikki and Paul tonight.’
You blink groggily, trying to catch your breath.
‘Could you grab some groceries? I won’t have time.’
You drag yourself downstairs, slamming cupboards open, scanning the sparse contents, making mental lists.
She comes down dressed already, buttoning the cuffs of your shirt – the one you wear for presentations. You freeze.
She strides to the coffee machine. She is all angles and hard edges; her elbow clips your ribs as she reaches for the beans. She doesn’t look at you, just moves past, clean and mechanical. All the softness gone.
‘I’ll take the car,’ she says curtly, her voice oddly deeper.
'Do you know where the keys are?'
'Do you mind?’ Your voice comes out unsteady. ‘Why are you being like this?’
'Like what?' she scoffs, rifling through your bag without looking at you.
Then she peers up with a raised eyebrow.
‘You know, you really are too sensitive.’