He traded in hope, she in resentment

The houseflies droned tirelessly. The apartment lay dormant beneath the thick layers of dust. A pungent odour embraced Maria. 

Maria tucked away her armchair in the corner of the living room, out of her husband, Paco’s, way. She exhaled. Why should he brush past her every time he makes his way from his armchair, to the kitchen or the bathroom? I won’t stand for it.

She wrapped her armchair in several layers of brown paper, which she nailed down with thirty shiny safety pins. She fell back in her armchair and took a full deep breath; the crackling noise of the paper made her giddy. 
She rested her swollen, ulcerated legs on a stool; it too was shrouded in brown paper. A family of maggots feasted on her ulcers.

Before long, her eyes were fixated on the tennis match. During the commercial break she scanned the room.
Her left eye twitched; her pupils became dilated; she retracted her lips exposing the cavities in her mouth, and yelled, ‘For fuck’s sake, Paco. Wake up! All you ever do is sleep! sleep! sleep!’ 

Paco’s right knee jerked inconspicuously. He slept unperturbed. She spat out her disdain.
The tennis match resumed. 

Next to her, stood a small coffee table. On it sat a small bottle of hand sanitiser, a packet of antibacterial wipes, and the universal remote-control .The latter was her singular source of entertainment.

She cleaned her hands with a dollop of sanitiser; she took four wipes and cleaned the remote control. She gripped the remote; her nails were thick, and discoloured, some had almost peeled back. 

The cuckoo clock struck midnight. 

A cursory glance at her husband was all it took; the tic in her left eye beat furiously. As far as she was concerned he was a total waste of space. 

She turned up the TV volume; the neighbour banged on the wall.

Paco’s right knee jerked slightly. He sat eyes shut. His neck and shoulders had succumbed under the weight of his head. The hairs of his nose were an unruly mob.

The phone rang. Paco opened his eyes, which revealed two pearls of liquid amber. He knew it was 12.30am. 
With his beautifully long fingers he picked the nose hairs out of his teeth.

He clasped both armrests, and locked his elbows in position, ready for take off. Oh, how he wished he had an ejection seat. 

The phone kept ringing. 

He stood and breathed slowly.

‘Don’t answer the phone!’ Maria said with a touch of hysteria. 

Paco could no longer hear her, but as he stood there, he felt her gnarled tentacles wanting to engulf his mind.
The phone rang out. That was okay. He and his daughter, Nena, had an arrangement. 

Nena had taught him to march in place, lifting his knees high toward the ceiling, to loosen up his legs before he attempted to walk. This always made him smile; he felt he was getting ready for battle.

He stared at the wall facing him. His wife’s large portrait was framed in gold. He noticed a blank space where his daughter’s photo had once lived. His eyes lingered; ‘I choose to never forget,’ he softly muttered.

The phone rang again.

‘I have told you not to answer the phone!!!! This is my house and you will do as I say,’ Maria shrilled. 
This time the neighbour hammered on the wall.

Paco turned towards his wife, and scrutinised her face. He opened his mouth but there was a void. He bit his lower lip; ‘Wh-wha…ay, aa-aa…re, yo-yo…you, ss…so, intent on hu-ha…rr…ting us?’ Paco found himself asking her as if it merited an answer. He bit his bottom lip again. 

His wife mocked him. ‘You are no more than an illiterate village donkey.’ 
He had stopped listening.

The phone kept ringing. 

He took small but well measured steps towards the phone; his heart beat with an excited tic, tac, tic, tac. He leaned on the cabinet, and picked up the receiver.

‘Papa, it’s me Nena,’ said the voice at the other end. 

He breathed slowly and rhythmically like she had taught him. He knew her voice would nurse him back to sanity.
‘Hello sugar,’ he replied.