Free Genie #12 - Perfect Housewife

It was already late in the evening, and to be honest, I was so damn tired of this endless messing around with rags, of the smell of Domestos that had seeped into the skin of my fingers, of the draft crawling along my legs because the windows were wide open — “to air it out after cleaning,” as I now told myself. My knees ached like I’d really been living in this body not for a week, but for ten freaking years. But the strangest thing was, all this stuff — the cleaning, dusting, cooking, and even the endless floor scrubbing — gave me some weird satisfaction. Which, frankly, pissed me off, but at the same time brought this strange peace into my soul. And, damn it, a sense of pride. I still can’t believe it, but I was actually proud of it all — especially when I got confirmation from my, God forgive me, husband...

I froze for a second, stretching out my back, which ached again from the bend, then stood up and wrung out the rag over the bucket, watching the cloudy, chemical-smelling water drip from the ends, and then dropped back to my knees. The floor under my palms was damp, cool, and smelled faintly of bleach. The rag slid unpleasantly under my hand, making my fingers tremble from fatigue. I could feel how the fabric of my “home” dress, with those stupid little flowers, clung to my now noticeably rounder hips that I could feel constantly. And every time I leaned forward, my breasts — goddamn it, my tits — jiggled and rubbed against the inner edge of my bra, like they were doing it on purpose, just to remind me: ‘Yeah, this is you now. A woman. A real one. And there’s no getting out of it.’

He should be here soon, so I at least needed to get up and pull myself together... I looked at the door from under my brows the way I’d never dared look at him when he was around. The door with its grimy handle — the one through which each of his returns seemed to split my day in half: “before him” and “with him” — was shut. Something twisted in my gut — not from fear, no, but from that strange, humiliating feeling of waiting. I wasn’t the type to ever sit at home hanging on my husband’s every word. I used to be... I used to be him. Dylan Huntley, thirty-three years old, Austin resident, owner of an auto shop with six employees and one dog named Murphy. I lived alone, sure, dated some girls, but never really saw them as wife material. They were all too... how should I put it... too independent. Too full of character, ambition, always going on about “self-actualization” and “boundaries.” Not that I was against it — I even admired it sometimes, until they started chewing my ass out for staying late at the garage or losing their shit because apparently I “didn’t know how to express emotions.” And all I fucking wanted was peace after a shift. A beer. A bowl of chili. And no one nagging me.

And then I met her — Lisa. Shit, if I’d known how it would all turn out, maybe I would’ve kept drinking my beer alone, watching Murphy chew on an old shoe. She showed up out of nowhere, like she wasn’t even from this world — literally. Not just pretty — no, there was something... unexplainable about her. She spoke strangely, like she was reviewing every word in her head, like she was looking straight into my soul. And on our very first date, for some damn reason, I told her — I don’t even know why — that I was sick of ambitious chicks and I wanted someone who’d stay home, be there for me, someone who’d be happy fulfilling her wifely duties and understand that a man is the center, someone to be pleased, not some accessory to a career ladder — she smiled and asked if that was really what I wanted. I smiled back and said, of course, that’s all I ever dreamed of.

She smiled then in this weird way, pointed somewhere off to the side so I’d look, and when I looked back — she was gone. Yeah, I was bummed, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The next morning I woke up with tits. Real ones. Warm, soft, kind of heavy, lying one over the other, squishing together as I lay on my side in some ridiculous position, my face buried in a pillow. And worst of all — I wasn’t alone. On my right, under the blanket, breathing slow and steady... was him. Dylan. Me. Or, more precisely, the one who was now the husband of this version of me. My name’s Amber now. Still can’t get used to it, goddamn it, because inside I’m still the same Dylan who owned an auto shop and couldn’t stand being messed with — especially in the morning.

I almost screamed. Almost jumped up, clutching the blanket to my chest, grabbing my head, yelling “What the fuck is going on, why the hell am I a titted chick and why the fuck am I lying next to myself?!” — but... I didn’t scream. For some reason. I just stared at how my boobs rose and fell with each breath, how my long hair tickled my face slightly, and listened to him snoring... me, Dylan, damn it, whose wife I was now.

And so, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming, I carefully slid off the bed. Pain shot through my chest, and I almost groaned. Damn it, even getting up had become a goddamn quest now — these tits, like kettlebells, living their own damn life. I fumbled for the old robe with the flowers, threw it on over that nightgown I still fucking hated — too thin, too soft, too feminine — and without looking back, walked into the kitchen, led by some unknown urge I didn’t yet understand.

Why? Why didn’t I scream, throw a fit, shake her by the shoulders demanding answers? Because while I was moving toward the sink, while I was turning on the water to rinse out the pot from yesterday’s soup, I suddenly... felt how nice it would be when he woke up and saw that breakfast was already made. I was already chopping onions, cursing everything in existence — the smell, the tears, the way a drop of oil hit my chest, right on the edge of the nightgown, and I had to wipe it off fast. But it didn’t change the fact: I was doing it myself, on my own initiative. With desire. And a weird, guilty pleasure.

Like some switch had flipped inside, and now I wanted everything clean, food ready, for this house... to work. For him to be happy. For me to be... good.

And now it’s been a week since it all started, and I just lived, goddamn it. Just every day — like clockwork: I’d wake up early, earlier than him, just to get myself together — because, turns out, with this cursed female body, everything takes time. Even a damn ponytail. I brewed coffee, buttered toast, boiled eggs, then changed sheets, did laundry, hung it out, scrubbed the tub, ironed his shirts — which, the bastard, kept tossing on the chair like a schoolboy. And all the time — with this strange, sticky feeling in my chest, like I was doing it... not because anyone told me to, but because I wanted him to come home and... see how clean everything was. How the meat in the oven smelled. How the damn tiles sparkled. And that goddamn floor I’d scrubbed for hours, just to...

Click.

The lock turned and I froze. Got down on my knees and straightened up, glancing sideways at the clock above the stove. My heart started pounding! He was home too early — six forty-three. He usually came closer to seven, or at least quarter to... But now... Shit. I instinctively wiped the damp fold of my dress with my hand and glanced at the stove — the meat was already simmering, but the potatoes weren’t done yet, and I hadn’t even changed. No lips, no hair — I looked like a worn-out maid, not a wife someone would want to kiss on the cheek.

The door slammed, and I heard the familiar tone of my own damn voice:

– Em, I’m home… Hope you didn’t get too tired today?

Tired? What? Is that... concern? God, that’s so sweet! A smile crept onto my face all on its own, and ignoring the ache in my knees and the tingle in my back, I jumped to my feet like I was following a command. Why did I stand up so fast? Why did everything inside me suddenly warm up, like he hadn’t just come home, but returned from war and the first thing he thought about was me? Damn it, I didn’t even think — I just... felt happy. Bit my lip, mentally cursing myself for that stupid, clingy reaction, for the way my chest tightened with joy, like I was suddenly dependent on his praise, goddamn it.

‘Stupid bitch,’ I threw at myself mentally. ‘You know this isn’t real, these aren’t your feelings. You know who he is. He’s you. He’s fucking you! And these feelings — they’re because of Lisa! Try not to be a doormat this time. Show that you’re a person too, that you can live for yourself and...’

And then I caught sight of the bucket out of the corner of my eye. It was right by my feet, almost in the shadow, but still visible. And it hit me like a fucking slap. Dirty water, a rag hanging over the edge, dripping. I hadn’t even finished cleaning in here or dumped it out! Shit! Everything — ruined! It stank of bleach, the floor was still wet, I looked like hell, no makeup, and don’t even get me started on my hair — tied up with some half-dead scrunchie, ready to snap. Honestly, even I wouldn’t want to kiss myself on the cheek right now.

Oh, holy frying pans! The potatoes! I rushed to the stove, quickly peeking into the oven — the meat had a crust already, but the potatoes were still half raw, even though they smelled decent. No, why the hell did he have to come back early today?! Yesterday would’ve been perfect — I was walking around in a cute robe, lips glossed, brows done like I somehow knew. And now — I looked like a hamster in floral rags with a hand that reeked of degreaser.

– Em? — his voice called out again from the hallway, warm, almost tender, like he genuinely cared.

– Y-yeah, — I blurted, quickly wiping my hands on the hem of my dress. It was wet. And there was a soap stain on my chest — perfect.

And there I was, standing like a fool between the stove and the bucket, looking... real. In the worst way. Real in my exhaustion, in this ridiculous flurry, in the fragile, trembling hope that he, that I, that he... would see and say it was all okay. That I was good. That he liked it. That I nailed it.

Goddamn it, what the hell is wrong with me!?!?