Unreachable Hand

Chapter 1

My husband, a man who’d always avoided physical intimacy with me, displayed a photograph at his hundredth photography exhibition. It was an art photo of him embracing another woman.

Both were completely nude, intertwined in the frame without a shred of modesty.

There was even a matching tattoo on her inner thigh, identical to his.

Before the guests, he spoke eloquently:

“This is my first attempt at bold, avant-garde art, and I especially want to thank Jessica for making such a huge sacrifice for my exhibition.”

“I hope we’ll have more opportunities to collaborate in the future.”

Instead of the usual screaming match, I remained calm.

I silently canceled our anniversary dinner reservation.

Four years of neglect. I didn’t want to cling to this anymore.

1

Soon, my phone buzzed with a cancellation confirmation.

I took one last look at the stage.

John still held hands with Jessica, laughing and chatting with the guests.

He had severe OCD; he couldn’t stand physical contact with anyone.

Not even his wife.

Kissing, hugging – the most ordinary things.

They were utterly unattainable for me.

Yet, for a woman he’d known less than three months, he broke his own rules.

The centerpiece of this hundredth exhibition, originally, was to be a close-up photo of John and me holding hands.

From our courtship to our marriage.

It was the first time he’d agreed to remove his gloves and have real physical contact with me.

With anticipation, the staff removed the dust cover from the frame.

But what was revealed was a highly explicit photograph.

John and Jessica, naked, their bodies pressed tightly together.

Their bodies barely concealed their private parts.

A nearly transparent plastic film covered them both.

The image was electrifying, yet aesthetically pleasing.

In my shock, I noticed a prominent tattoo on Jessica’s inner thigh.

It was identical to the one on John’s abdomen.

During his speech, he falsely claimed the photograph was a bold artistic challenge and a form of self-healing for his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

John shed tears during his speech.

He thanked Jessica for guiding and helping him over the past few months, allowing him to overcome his anxieties and fears.

I couldn’t accept such a ridiculous excuse.

To support John, I quit my high-paying job.

I became a stay-at-home wife.

I cleaned the sheets, curtains, and clothes daily.

Even the tableware was labeled to avoid confusion.

After more than four years of accommodating him, I was exhausted.

2

John didn’t return home until after 3 AM.

He wore a smug smile, completely oblivious to the missing button on his collar.

Seeing me still on the couch, he approached slowly and reached for my neck:

“Sorry, I didn’t discuss changing the artwork beforehand, but the original piece lacked visual impact and affected the overall presentation.”

“Next time, I’ll re-display our photo when there’s a more suitable theme. Does that work?”

I glanced up; he still wore his gloves.

Maintaining a distance.

“Sarah, today’s our fourth wedding anniversary. Why don’t you take a shower first, and then…”

His words made me chuckle.

Over the years,

spontaneous kisses, hugs, and other normal things.

John never initiated them.

If they happened, it was compensation for a mistake.

Or perhaps, an act of charity.

I said nothing. I picked up the hand sanitizer, causing him to snort.

He said, teasingly touching my chin:

“It’s okay, my OCD isn’t as bad as before. You don’t need to be so careful.”

Just as his fingertips neared, I blocked him with my arm.

John’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Sarah, I told you I wouldn’t mind. You don’t need to be so cautious.”

I shook my head:

“No… I mind.”

John’s face visibly twitched.

He must have thought he misheard.

Quickly, his trembling pupils returned to normal:

“What I said at the exhibition was just to hype the piece. You don’t really think my twenty-year OCD suddenly vanished because of Jessica, do you?”

“Sarah, I thought you weren’t so rigid. Now you’re giving me the cold shoulder because of one photo…”

I didn’t respond; I silently returned to the guest room.

And locked the door.

John always said he was a light sleeper, even my slightest movement would bother him.

To avoid disturbing him,

I’d slept in this cramped, windowless room for four years.

He still hadn’t realized.

A change in affection isn’t instantaneous.

3

That night, I slept soundly.

I didn’t wake until noon the next day.

Downstairs in the living room, the master bedroom door was slightly ajar; John was gone.

Only a note remained on the dining table:

“I was supposed to take you to dinner yesterday, but the exhibition delayed me.”

“I’ll come home early tonight to make up for the missed anniversary. Please forgive me?”

Next to the note was a small six-inch photo.

It was the photo of John and me holding hands.

He’d made a smaller version and placed it prominently.

As if to showcase his meager “deep affection.”

I tore it into pieces, along with the note, and threw them in the trash.

During our early courtship,

John’s OCD was severe, but he tried to overcome his fears.

At school, other couples strolled hand-in-hand.

We held opposite ends of a piece of cloth.

Maintaining a distance of more than a foot and a half.

I knew he was terrified of intimacy, so I wouldn’t force him.

Even our first kiss was through a pane of glass.

John blushed, tears welling, apologizing.

“Sarah, once I’m better, I’ll be the first to hug you.”

I wasn’t angry; I adored this unusual boy.

No matter how long it took, I would always be by his side…

Suddenly, an unknown number called.

The sudden ring pulled me from my reverie.

I leaned back, pressed answer, and heard a familiar voice:

“Sarah, I’m starting at a company overseas next month. We haven’t seen each other in over six months. Let’s grab a drink in a few days?”

It was Summer, a former colleague.

We worked in the same department and were close friends.

I quit my job to care for John.

I even gave up social activities, fearing that regular outings would unsettle him.

After some pleasantries, I learned from Summer that she was going to a newly listed company.

The offer was several times better than before.

“Sarah, I’m going abroad, and I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. I’ve made a reservation; you have to come, okay?”

Summer’s voice held a hint of reluctance.

I cleared my throat and tentatively asked:

“Could you ask if they have any openings? We could go abroad together.”

After a few seconds of silence, a shriek erupted.

“Are you kidding? You really want to go abroad?”

I confirmed, and Summer became even more excited.

“Of course! With your skills, big companies will be scrambling for you.”

“Wait, I’ll finish up here, and we’ll talk properly when we meet!”

4

Around 9 PM, John surprisingly arrived on time.

He carried several takeout containers straight into the kitchen.

Because of his OCD, John couldn’t cook normally.

The smell of cooking would make him nauseous.

Let alone cooking voluntarily.

Entering the kitchen was already remarkable.

“You said you wanted to eat Sichuan food, didn’t you? I contacted the chef before work to prepare it; I just need to heat it up.”

John carefully placed the containers in the microwave and turned the dial.

In his eyes, was this the best “compensation” he could offer?

After heating the food, John wore disposable gloves.

He placed the uniformly colored and shaped plates on the table, carefully adjusting their positions.

Until every plate was at the perfect angle.

“Eat. Remember to start with the vegetables, then the meat…”

John stared at me, even counting my chews.

Fearing that I’d chew too many times and disrupt his established order.

“Sarah, don’t chew on the right side, you’re doing it too much. Switch sides…”

“There’s less than half the broccoli left, eat more meat first…”

A normal dinner was torture in this house.

To please John, even my eating habits were controlled.

But for Jessica, these restrictions seemed nonexistent.

This girl, fresh out of art school, quickly became John’s most frequent model.

At first, he patiently corrected her poses and expressions.

Once, I was there when Jessica finished a photoshoot.

She patted John’s shoulder and whispered:

“John, thanks for your hard work today.”

This shocked everyone present; we nervously watched John, unable to speak.

He hated unauthorized physical contact.

Even getting too close would infuriate him.

Surprisingly, he remained calm, unfazed.

I thought John was overwhelmed by work.

But a month ago, Jessica caught a bad cold from a shoot in ice water.

John went straight to her house and took care of her.

He carefully wiped her body with a wet towel.

Before giving her medicine, he’d taste-test the temperature and flavor.

I accidentally found this on Jessica’s private Weibo account.

Why was John so resistant when I needed care?

Fearing infection, he moved to a hotel.

After I recovered, he hired a cleaner to thoroughly clean the house.

He found it dirty, even throwing away my bedding and buying a new set.

Soon, I finished my dinner.

John stepped back, softly saying:

“No need to wash the dishes, the cleaner will come later, you can rest.”

I put down my chopsticks, looking up at the overhead light.

The bright light was dazzling.

After calming down, I realized the inconsistencies.

John didn’t dislike dirt; he disliked me.

I took a deep breath and looked at him.

Finally uttering the words I’d been contemplating:

“John, let’s get a divorce…”