“Don’t you think a week of this silent treatment is enough?” Martin said, as they turned into Ayala Avenue. He and his wife had not exchanged a word in days.
Stella uttered in a monotone, “I want you to apologize for being an insensitive jackass.”
“What do I have to say ‘sorry’ for?” he sounded genuinely perplexed.
“The day the yaya‘s were on their day off, I had a bad case of dysmenorrhea. I was crying from the pain — you saw it! Still, I got up, cooked breakfast, bathed the children and washed the dishes. I asked you very kindly if you could watch the baby for a few minutes while I lay down. Do you remember what you did? More importantly what you didn’t do?”
He nervously stepped on the gas pedal, making the car jerk as the car entered the parking structure. “Stella, the championships were on and I didn’t know you were feeling THAT bad.”
“You can be such a jerk sometimes.”
“And you are being selective feminist. You hate it when people treat you different because you are a woman. Yet you still use your uterus to lay guilt trips on me.” Martin was not known to yield easily.
Stella fumed even more. “My uterus has nothing to do with why I’m mad. I’m mad because you chose to mock my pain when I needed your help. Would you have done different if I was having a heart attack?” She stormed out of the car just as it stopped in Martin’s space.
Martin jumped out after her, nudging her to her limit, “You have that dysmenorrhea thing every month, shouldn’t you be like … used to it by now?”
Stella froze in her tracks. She turned around and marched back ten meters to where Martin was standing. Without missing her cadence, she kicked her husband forcefully between the legs.
Martin fell to the floor, writhing in pain. Stella could see he was crying.
Stella bowed and asked derisively, “Honey, now you know what it feels like to bleed from your crotch. You think you could get used to that?”