Life as I knew it (part 1)

"What'dya want for dinner?", she said, as she, precariously, rested her cigarette in the overflowing ash tray that sat next to her bed.
"What're you cooking?", his reply reflected his total disinterest.
"Whatever you want".
"I don't care ... pick somethin'".
She wanted to scream at the monatony of a conversation they repeated daily and the stifling boredom that had become their only form of communication.  Instead, she took a long deep drag on her Marlboro, turned over, and looked around her room.
Through the smoke, her eyes found the collection of expensive porcelain dolls, dust-laden and haphazardly arranged on the entertainment center, that had once meant a great deal to her.  These were not your everday dolls.  Each one was a limited edition, complete with its' own "certificate of authenticity".  Back when it mattered, her husband would buy them for her all the time.
She used to admire their intricate detail.  Especially, their individual and distinct facial expressions.  Each one was unique, but, it was always the Mother and child dolls that she loved the most.
The way they gazed at each other with such adoration.  It was almost, as if, she could feel their bond.
Now, their hair messy and matted, their outfits dirty and stained, she saw beyond the illusion.  Now, cold and lifeless, they mimiced her existence in almost every way.
"Maybe I'll just order", she said.  Her eyes welled up, but her gaze never wavered.
"Whatever"
"Yea ... whatever".  She clenched her teeth.  If she had to continue this farce one minute longer, she'd pull out the .22 he kept hidden in the closet and blow her brains out.
But, for now, she reached for a slower, and much preferred, method of self-destruction.  She lit another cigarette.
She barely noticed whether the match was still lit or whether it had hit it's intended target as she got out of bed, made her way through all the clutter on the floor and put on her sweat pants.
"Chinese it is", she said and glanced at her husband, hoping, yet again, he'd look up from his comic book, just once, and acknowledge the fact that she was still, somewhat, alive.
"Sounds good to me.  Get me some fried won-ton."
Not even a glance.
"Oh ... don't forget to ask the kid what she wants", he said casually, turning another page in the gripping saga of good vs. evil.
"Sure", she lied and left the bedroom.  That he cares about.
She walked down the stairs and knew she had to let it go.  There was no way she'd get into that again and there was also no way she'd ask the person who couldn't decide what shade of red lip-stick to wear, to choose through an entire Chinese menu.  God didn't make that kind of patience.  And, he or she, especially, didn't make it for her.
Once upon a time, she used to cook.  She enjoyed preparing large meals for her family.  Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade lasagna, or their favorite, chicken soup with Matzo balls, made from scratch.
They loved them all and she loved making them.
But, that was back then. Back when she still cleaned, still washed, still cared.
On the phone, the woman at the chinese restaurant read her mind.  She'd ordered so often from them, that they, automatically, knew what she wanted and where she lived simply from the sound of her voice.  She preferred it this way.  The smaller the effort, the better.
After she hung up, she sat in her favorite rock in the living room, the one her husband said she loved to wallow in.  She knew, to some degree, that was true, but even more than the misery which had become her constant companion on this never-ending journey, she simply loved the quiet.
The other members of her family were, probably, in their respective rooms, electing as always, to ignore each other at all costs.  Either that, or the kid would be in the toilet, prancing and preening in front of the mirror, pretending she was anyone else and hoping, above hope, she was somewhere else.  Her Mother, unless the soaps were one, would be watching a Barbara Streisand movie for the 100th time.
Whatever they were doing, it didn't really matter.  She had nothing to say to either of them.  As far as she was concerned, the war could wait.