After ten years of marriage, my husband entered a “sensitive period for order.” I picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks, and he saw it, rising to get a new pair from the kitchen. His discarded pajamas were off-limits to me; they could only go to a specific dry cleaner. Our bed was divided in half—pillows, blankets, even the direction of my breath couldn’t cross the boundary. Today, he didn’t touch the breakfast I’d prepared again. The toast was golden-brown, the fried egg perfectly runny, just how he liked it, and the milk was warmed to fifty degrees. But he didn’t even glance at it before leaving for work. I noticed he’d forgotten a contract and hurried after him, only to find his new secretary waiting for him in the basement. She brazenly popped a half-eaten bun into his mouth, and he, indulgent, ate it. A sudden realization struck me. Only children aged two or three have a “sensitive period for order.” For adults, this is called physiological aversion. 1 The underground parking garage was quiet. The young woman chattered animatedly, brimming with an enviable vitality. Jim didn’t speak, but he naturally swallowed the half-eaten bun. The atmosphere was impossibly warm. I was very good at disrupting such atmospheres. “You haven’t eaten pastries in a long time.” I was calmer than I expected. Before Jim could formulate a response, the young woman bounced out. She stuck out her tongue, a mischievous, impish look on her face. “It’s all my fault! I bought the wrong buns today, so…” “I wasn’t asking you.” My voice was soft, but it instantly brought tears to the young woman’s eyes. Jim’s smile vanished, and he instinctively stepped in front of her. “Willow, it’s not what you think.” He sighed, reaching out to take my hand. I instinctively recoiled, and he froze, then casually withdrew his hand. “Beth lives nearby, so she just catches a ride with me to the office. You used to live in a rental too, you know how tough the commute can be.” Yes, back then, we only had one beat-up scooter, all year round. In summer, the seat got scorching hot, unbearable at first. In winter, the cold wind was biting, our breath condensing into white mist. Jim’s voice was carried away by the wind: “Willow, I promise I’ll work hard to buy a car so you won’t have to suffer the wind and sun again.” Actually, he was colder standing in front of me than I was. I looked at his reddened ears and gently placed my hand over them. “It’s not hard. As long as I have you, it’s not hard.” Later, he bought a car. But I never rode in it again. 2 A wave of bitterness washed over me. I blinked, trying to mask my momentary lapse. “Don’t be so tense, I just came to drop off a contract.” Seeing the contract in my hand, Jim visibly, though subtly, let out a breath of relief. “Willow, don’t worry. She’s just my secretary.” He solemnly reassured me, his eyes seemingly holding the familiar affection I remembered. But only I knew, it was different now. I dug my nails into my palm, a sarcastic smirk on my lips. “I never knew bosses needed to pick up and drop off their secretaries daily now.” The young woman behind him lowered her head, looking somewhat embarrassed. Seemingly not expecting me to persist, Jim fiddled with his car keys, his tone somewhat annoyed. “Willow, you don’t need to be so harsh on a young woman.” Harsh? It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over my head. All those words of accusation were now stuck in my throat, swallowed down with the bitterness. “Just kidding.” I forced a lighthearted laugh. “If others don’t find it funny, it’s not a joke. Apologize.” I stared at Jim, stunned. Once upon a time, he would stand before me just like this, refusing to let me suffer even the slightest wrong. I tried to find a shadow of regret on his face. But I found nothing. Jim just gazed steadily at me, his authoritative stance unmistakable. Not wanting the scene to become any more awkward, I finally spoke: “I’m sorry.” Jim seemed satisfied with my understanding and tact, not hesitating to offer me some small recompense. “Good girl. I’ll have dinner with you tonight.” He spoke from a position of superiority, treating dinner at home as a reward for me. In the past, I might have secretly delighted in it. But now, I simply twitched my lips. “As you wish.” Jim didn’t seem to notice my attitude. He checked his watch and turned to leave. The young woman stayed very close to him, practically following in his footsteps. Then, she skillfully got into the passenger seat. I stood rooted to the spot, silently watching their car. The car slowly drove out of the parking garage. The silence was absolute. I touched my face. Turns out, I couldn’t even shed tears anymore. 3 Something had been wrong between Jim and me for a long time. In the beginning, he simply didn’t hold me after intimacy. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel the same way with you as I used to.” He frowned, seemingly frustrated himself. I was distraught, only wanting to salvage things, so the next time we were intimate, I proactively wore a provocative outfit. He was surprised, and he was passionate. It felt like we were back to how we used to be. But it didn’t last. The next time I put on the outfit, he said, “Are you that eager? It makes me feel like I’m completing a task.” I didn’t speak, just quietly went to the bathroom and changed. In the mirror, I looked at my body, tears streaming endlessly. From then on, we stopped being intimate. He seemed relieved. I comforted myself, telling myself it was normal. After all, we were an old married couple. But I didn’t expect that was just the beginning. He said we’d been together too long and needed some space. “Willow, I see you as family now.” Jim said he still loved me. I accepted it, and so I quietly accepted all his rules. I couldn't touch his pajamas, and at night, we could sleep with our backs to each other. But when I used his chopsticks to pick up a dish and he immediately reached for a new pair, I still cried. After we married, I didn’t cry often. The time before last, I cried tears of joy on the day we got our marriage license. That day, Jim had gently kissed away my tears: “Willow, I love everything about you.” Now, he found the chopsticks I had used too dirty. I cried heartbrokenly, and Jim just watched me coldly from the side. It wasn't until my voice was hoarse that he finally asked, “Cried enough? If you have, go get some sleep.” 4 His composure made me feel like a madwoman. I began searching online for reasons. It wasn’t until I read about the “sensitive period for order” that I felt some relief. It’s normal, I told myself. He just lacked a sense of security and wanted to maintain his own order. I clung to this hope, intending to patiently see him through this period, back to how things used to be. But I had forgotten. The “sensitive period for order” only appears in young children. Jim could eat a bun bitten by someone else; his “order” was directed only at me. Jim loathed me. It was an uncontrollable, physiological aversion. Jim didn’t come home for dinner tonight either. On the dining table, the same sandwich from this morning still sat there. I numbly put it in my mouth. The cold, runny egg was fishy, and the milk had formed a skin. I instinctively retched, rushing to the bathroom, throwing up until I felt dizzy. I don't know how long it was before I heard a familiar voice from the doorway. “Sorry, Willow, something at work held me up.” Jim was carrying a bag from my favorite pineapple cake shop. Since he’d hurt his stomach drinking and couldn’t eat pastries, I hadn’t had them in a long time either. Seeing my gaze fixed on the bag, Jim managed a faint smile. “I queued for a long time. Eat it while it’s warm.” The familiar scent and packaging brought me back to when we were newly married. Back then, we still lived in a rented room. Next month’s rent was still uncertain, and I was too sick to get out of bed. Jim worked tirelessly, even taking a part-time job delivering food at night. The landlady was kind, often bringing us food and drinks. That night, just after she’d brought a box of pineapple cakes, I received a call from the hospital. Jim had hit an old woman while riding his scooter. I forced myself to gather all our money and went to the hospital. It was only 836 dollars—a drop in the ocean. I looked at the desperate Jim and knelt before the other family. “Whatever our responsibility, we won’t shirk it. We’ll write an IOU and pay it back. Please, don’t hold him accountable.” Seeing our pitiful state, they sighed and waved us off. At the hospital’s back entrance, Jim and I cried in each other’s arms. Penniless, we ate that box of pineapple cakes for three days. Without that faint sweetness, we wouldn’t have recovered so quickly. Thinking of this, a sliver of hope rose in me again. Was Jim apologizing for this morning? Perhaps things weren't as bad as I thought. I instinctively reached out to take the bag, then my gaze froze. On the takeaway bag was a strand of hair—light brown, medium length, just like the secretary’s. They had eaten dinner together. My hand trembling, I opened the bag. There were only three cakes inside. “Why is one missing?” I tried to sound casual. Jim’s expression became unnatural. “It smelled too good, so I tasted one. Didn’t you also say earlier that you can’t eat things that are too sweet now? I figured it would be a waste if it wasn’t eaten, so…” Seeing Jim making excuses, I suddenly found it incredibly uninteresting. “Then take the rest to her too.” Jim’s brows furrowed tightly, his face filled with irritation. “What’s wrong with you now? She can’t even eat one piece?” He didn’t understand; this was never about one piece of pastry. He had shared our sweetness with someone else. I closed my eyes, finally unable to endure it any longer. “No. I don’t like it anymore.” Jim gazed steadily at me. “I’ll ask you one last time. Are you going to eat it?” “No.” Before I finished speaking, Jim directly threw the entire box of pineapple cakes into the trash can. “Fine, if you won’t eat it, then it’s gone.” The scent of pineapple cakes still lingered in the air. But now, as our eyes met, only exhaustion remained. “I’ve been working all day; I’m really tired.” Jim ran a hand through his hair and kicked the trash can. “If you want to have a good life, can you please stop causing trouble?” I looked into his eyes, and the aversion he felt for me was so obvious. “Am I the one causing trouble?” I spoke, only to find my voice hoarse. “You’ve been off for a long time.” “What’s wrong with me?” Jim scoffed. “I told you I love you. I would never cheat. Can you not be so suspicious all the time?” I looked at Jim, finding his face genuinely open and honest. I suddenly felt utterly drained, physically and mentally. “It’s not only sleeping together that counts as cheating.” Jim sneered. “Ultimately, you just think I haven’t touched you, don’t you?” He suddenly walked closer, grabbing my wrist directly. “Then let’s do it. You’ll be satisfied once we’ve done it.” With that, he dragged me towards the bedroom. “Slap!” The next second, a crisp slap echoed across Jim’s face. He looked at me, bewildered. The last shred of delusion in my heart also vanished at this moment. “Do you think you’re the only one who finds this relationship disgusting?” In Jim’s incredulous eyes, I finally spoke my mind: “I’ve had enough too.” “Jim, let’s get a divorce.”
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