Every weekday morning he put on a neatly pressed shirt which his wife had ironed for him. He tied his tie as neatly as could be and then combed his hair. He drank a glass of orange juice alongside a bowl of cereal, usually Shredded Wheat (though occasionally Corn Flakes when his wife was feeling adventurous at the grocery store, or Cheerios if she had a coupon). Then he would put on his jacket while his wife cleared away the dishes. He always gave her a quick peck before heading out the door and to work.
Every day at work he sat at his desk typing, usually for the first two hours. After that, most days there would be a meeting, where he would sit in a conference room for another two hours. His lunch hour came next, and he would go to the sandwich shop next to his office building and order the special of the day, which rotated depending on what day of the week it was. The variety was nice.
Every Wednesday night he put the garbage cans out on the curb. Every Thursday he brought the garbage cans back in. Every Sunday he went to church with his family. He paid all of his bills on time and always gave to the church. He nodded along fervently when his neighbors spoke of how the youth of today were morally bankrupt and that the gays and non-believers were threatening to corrupt their perfect children. He backed them up as they condemned anyone leading an alternate lifestyle.
Every Friday night his wife went to her scrapbooking group. The kids would go off to the neighbors or a friend’s house. It was just when the crushing monotony threatened to overwhelm and crush his will to continue with the charade that he would break free. He took a breath, inhaling deeply and holding the air inside his lungs to breathe a sigh that he could, for the next three hours, appreciate the gift of life that breathing in the air sustained for him. He let his always-tensed muscles relax and rolled his neck before heading towards the closet, uncovering a box hidden in the recesses behind countless shoe boxes and shopping bags. Unlike the products that had been held within those vessels, the contents of the box he extracted were treasured and revered.
The sheen of smooth silk caught the light when the lid came off the box. It was brilliant, almost lurid red and so refreshing to touch. A strappy little number, he removed the dress from the box and ran the fabric across his always clean-shaven cheek. He shivered and his heart rate picked up. Off came his tie and the oppression of the starched white cotton shirt. The silk, holding in it a coolness, slid over his skin with an elegant drape. It moved and swayed as he moved.
He would make sure that everyone had really left the house and that the blinds were indeed closed and then just go about the house. In the kitchen he would prepare himself a snack, glimpsing himself in the hallway mirror and smiling. There was confidence in his stride, rather than the subservient meekness that usually was reflected in his gait. In the rest of his life, he was a man serving others. At work he served his bosses and the higher-ups in the company, in order to provide for his family and give them all that they could need. He was a man that lived to serve God and his church at all times, except these Friday nights where he finally did something for himself. This was something which he couldn’t do any other time, because if he did the rest of his life wouldn’t be possible. So only for a few hours a week did he get to feel like himself in his natural state, and then he returned to hide behind the rigid façade that society was comfortable keeping him behind.
It was the lowest point of his week when he had to take off the dresses and his them once again in the darkness of that box in the back of the closet before his wife got him. Every week that moment infected him with a mood of despair. He would carefully fold the dress before replacing the box, and not content to get back into his usual oppressive dress he would put on his pajamas instead, which were at least soft and comfortable against his skin. Then he would head out into the living room and turn on the television, sitting there like he had been watching it all night so when his wife got home she could think to herself what a steady man she had married that she could always predict he’d be in front of the TV when she got home on Friday night. He would stand up, give her a kiss, and think to himself how he wished that the woman he loved would be able to accept him for who he was. But he was filled with doubts that she had it in her, and so he would push the thoughts out of his mind and go about his routine again.
