The Wife I Despise

When did it all begin? I started to feel disgusted by my wife. Perhaps it was that ordinary afternoon, when she dipped a child’s saliva-soaked steamed bun into the oily broth in the dish and crammed it into her cracked, peeling mouth; or perhaps it was that summer a few years ago, when she squeezed her swollen post-partum body into the tight miniskirt I had carefully chosen for her when I was in love with her, and rolls of greasy fat bulged around her arms and waist; or perhaps it was not long after we met, when she smugly called herself my fiancée and lowered herself to curry favor with my family and friends, only to be branded a cheap tramp behind her back. Whenever these memories surfaced from the depths of my mind, a wave of dizziness washed over me. It was a visceral revulsion, my body warning me: Get away from her! Get away from her!