A Well-Worn Story

My husband took a beautiful picture of me with my lover. We are sitting on a blanket in the grass and our knees are touching. Only part of H’s face can be seen. He is looking at my son who is moving his arms and legs to the beat. My son is dancing with a little girl and her skirt is twirling in a blur. She and the rest of us are in motion.

It looks as if H and Baby M I had jumped into the photograph. We are poised and ready for this moment and for others. The people in this photo want to be part of what my husband is just content to watch.

My husband caught me sitting next to H. I am there and I am so close to him. I am in mid-clap and I must have been swaying to whatever I was hearing because my hair is not pushed behind my ears. It is carefree and falling over one shoulder and my body is tilted to toward H.

We didn’t know my husband was sneaking photos of us at the concert. I didn’t realize he had pulled out the camera to take candid shots of his wife, his son and his friend. I wasn’t conscious of the lens on me, but I am looking at it anyway. My hands are positioned to come together and I am smiling at my husband with the camera. It is an unapologetic smile. It is a smile that erupts from the deepest and wisest happy. It’s the way people smile when they have what they need and they know.

When we talk about it now, H remembers my peep toe pumps and the way I gestured to emphasize a point. I can’t recall that kind of detail. I don’t remember the events of that night with any clarity, which is strange for us. I am usually the one recounting what was said and who wore what and how the food tasted, but he is our memory for this.

I bet he was wearing a hat and Italian shoes. He still had his goatee and he was probably rubbing it and being boisterous. He could have been asking our waitress to surprise him and bring him her favorite beer instead of choosing it for himself. Maybe he was talking to someone about his next tattoo or who he liked the least that day at work.

I walked by there today. I stood across the street from the place where we met and looked up. Women wearing sunglasses were sitting on bar stools, swinging their legs and kicking off the heels of their shoes. Those who made it to lunch before the rush got the choice seats under the white cabanas and out of the sun. They all looked so young and unburdened from where I stood. 

H wants us to go back soon. He says he’d like me to show up first and sit alone at the bar and order a drink. He will come in after and approach me as if it is the first time again. We’ll talk for awhile and then he will take me to dinner and eventually to bed.

I would prefer we walk in together, our fingers entwined. I’d lean in so he could whisper in my ear and when we saw someone we knew we wouldn’t have to hide our hands. We would not have to make it clear we are just friends out for a drink. We would not have to be conscious of how we looked to everyone else and how meaningfully we looked at each other.

I will take part in H’s fantasy. I will go back to a place and a time when I didn’t know him. I will play along even though it doesn’t seem fun to pretend we’re not together. We have to do that every day. 

I am the married one in this affair. I am sleeping next to someone else. I am folding boxers and wiping coarse beard hairs that gather near the drain. I share a toothbrush holder and when I pour a glass of wine I have to ask if I should pour another. I never cook for me. I am the table-for-two-with-a-high-chair, please. 

H is the single one. He is eating cereal or ice cream for dinner. He is taking his darks and whites to the laundromat once a week and grabbing a beer at the bar next door while they dry. He is getting bored with the porn on his laptop and hockey on TV and he is reading in bed until he falls asleep wearing his glasses.

H is out on the weekends. Most of the time, he is alone and talking to the bartender or a waitress. He knows them by name and they know what he likes to eat and drink. Sometimes H is meeting friends and they are sitting outside at one of his favorite spots. They are talking loudly and drinking too fast. They are not noticing the hours pass despite the accumulation of empty bottles clinking on the table.

I am at home on the weekends. My son is snuggling up against my back in his toddler bed after having heard a story. He is shifting his pacifier to the side of his mouth to mumble “lub you” and he is no longer stirring. I am pushing myself up from the mattress and stepping on the floorboards that don’t creak. I am looking at my phone for the green light signaling that a message has been sent.

I know if I don’t see it, H’s phone battery died. If it is late, he might already be home on the couch and the phone has fallen from his palm to the floor. I know these things, but I still worry when I don’t hear from him. I tell H it is because I fret about him dying in a fiery crash, which is not entirely true.

If I don’t get a message, I wonder about the woman capturing his attention. Who she is or how they met is not important. I can guarantee we aren’t alike. She is out. She is available. Her hair is smoothed and shiny, she doesn’t have darkly circled eyes and there is no applesauce on her shirt. 

H insists he only wants me. Me with the messy hair and the tired eyes and the food-stained clothes. Me with my toddler and my broken marriage and my anxiety. When I’m yelling at him because I didn’t hear from him and it scared me, he doesn’t shout back anymore. He hugs me. He holds me and promises to always bring an extra battery. He squeezes me tighter and says he misses me, too.

He loses his breath when he is inside me. He is hovering over me, unsteady and trying to hold his weight. Eventually he is not able to maintain it and he twists away. I urge him to try and regulate his breathing. He rolls his eyes and says he wishes he would have thought of that and goes to get us water.

This happens when we are together. He is ok and then he is breathless. He is holding my hair from my neck to kiss it and he is asking me what I want him to do. We are standing next to the bed and he is lifting my face to his and we are leaning in until we fall. He wants me. He is ready and we are rhythmic for a time. The stop is quite sudden. He is light-headed and he knows he’s been holding in and it scares him. 

He and I took Baby M to dinner yesterday. He knows exactly what to order and he remembers to ask if we can get M’s food first. He colors on the placemat and shows M that a little bit of water on the underside will ensure it doesn’t move when he eats. I ask for the check and it is already paid. We go for walk and he crouches to M’s level to ask him if he’d like to be carried. He tells him we are going to buy mommy a dress he saw in a window and we do. 

I’m putting M in the car seat and looking away. I don’t know when we will be able to do this again. He lightly taps the bill of M’s hat for their goodbye. We move toward each other and I close my eyes and his lips touch my cheek. It is then I realize all I have been holding. The fear, the optimism, the sadness, the contentment, the regret and the relief. They are coiled tight. They are impossible to separate. They are conflicting, but I carry them just the same. I can’t think on them for long. If I do, I will lose it. If I do and he does, who will breathe for the both of us? 

He is saying something as we walk off in different directions.

“Your face captures my heart every time I see you. Like I’m seeing you again for the first time. Every time.”

I exhale and smile. Maybe we can take turns. 

He couldn’t decide whether to stay or go so he straddled the coffee table and looked at me instead. The table was a barrier we had shoved in front of the doorway so Baby M didn’t cross over onto the slick tiles. I had forgotten to put on his socks with the gripper soles. 

I wanted H to stay with us and H wanted to stay. Baby M didn’t know the difference. At least that is what we always said to each other. Except now we wondered if he was starting to realize. M knew Uncle H was fun. M liked when Uncle H took us to dinner and he helped us assemble the same puzzles over and over. He laughed when Uncle H leaned over the tub and joined us as we shouted goodbye to the bubbles from his bath. He looked over at Uncle H in the rocking chair listening to mommy read his stories. 

M sensed the something different and it kept him awake. He would not close his eyes and he shook a fistful of my hair. H ducked out of the room thinking he was the distraction. I don’t believe Baby M was tugging out of anger or spite. He was curious. He seemed afraid to fall asleep for fear he would miss what happened next.

“You’re not going to like this,” H said as he closed the notebook he was doodling in. He always had it with him. 

My eyes burned hot. I shook my head because I knew what was coming. I had finally gone through the nightly ritual with someone. We looked at each other and smiled when M asked to brush his “teef.” H handed me the books from the shelf in the corner and gave me the pacifier when it fell on the floor. I didn’t have to hop over the bed rail and blacken my knee to get to it tonight.

H had joined us for our routine and  I had always imagined what would happen after. We would shut out the lights, gaze at M sleeping and head downstairs to curl up together. Maybe sleep would come. Maybe not. It wouldn’t matter.

“We need to do this for M. We both know what’s right,” H said over the sobs I was trying to mask with coughing sounds.

“I love you both,” he said and closed the door behind him. 

M had pulled H’s notebook toward him at dinner. He edged it over to him from where it was sitting on the table and he started to crease a page. H gently held his hand so he would stop. He told M he wanted to keep the pages intact. He told M this was a very special book. He wrote notes to mommy in it. I wonder what they say. I wonder if I will ever see them.  

Restless sleep is my new normal. I doze off for just a few hours a night since I had my son. He cries for me a lot, but he does not wake me every time. I peek into his room if I cannot hear anything from him. I lay my hand on his chest and put my ear to his mouth and there it is. He does not need to make noises or breathe too quietly to rouse me from sleep. I am always aware of him and that is enough.  

H stayed overnight on Monday because Baby M and my husband C were away. H and I do not get to wake up to each other often. The last two times were on our birthdays. We weren’t celebrating anything this time. This time, H made dinner and I stood in the kitchen and talked to him while he cooked. We sat side-by-side on the big couch to eat our meal. The big couch was C’s. I had not been on it for years. I was surprised at how different the room looked from that angle. 

Neither of us wanted to sleep in the bed I share with C so the spare bedroom became ours for the night. My eyes were tired and threatened to close a half a dozen times, but I forced myself awake to be with H. I wanted to hear his voice next to my ear. I didn’t want to waste a moment on something as silly as sleep. I had been functioning just fine without it. 

I eventually gave in, but H didn’t. I woke up several times to see him still lying next to me, but wide awake. One time his hands were clasped in front of him and he was staring up at the ceiling. Every other time, he was watching me. He said I looked peaceful. 

I slept soundly with H. I slept without fear of missing something. I slept without vigilance. I slept without worrying who was neglected while I rested. I want that for H. I want to take away his restlessness. I want to hear his even breathing. I want to watch him walk through a dream.

I don’t know why I am fixated on the other woman. I am obsessed with knowing everything about her. I am focused on her because it is easier. Comparing myself superficially to someone I don’t even know is simpler than dealing with our issues.  

H and I have always had them. We do a decent job of quieting them. We manage to quell them just enough so we can continue to meet and brush hands reaching for a drink and rest our legs on one another under the table. We tell each other these problems don’t matter when we’re together, but they come raging back. We think we’re so self-aware and communicative and emotionally mature. There is nothing we can’t talk about. At least that’s what we tell each other.

Occasionally we erupt. It all breaks down and we fall apart and there is never a warning. An evening starts out perfectly lovely. Our glances are plenty and full of meaning no matter what it is we’re saying. We’ve even become wiser about contentious topics. We do not dwell on disagreements. We remind each other there is never a winner and loser. There can’t be. We’re on the same team.

We tell each other these things and then last night happened. I found something Friday. I found something of H’s that was not mine to see. It was H’s and it was private so I decided before I even read it that I would never make mention of seeing these thoughts of his. He even remarked in his writings how he needed to carve out a space were he could express himself without recrimination. I had stumbled upon this secret place where he spoke truths and expressed desires I never knew existed. 

I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to do the enlightened thing. I wanted to do the thing that a woman in psychotherapy working on her daddy issues for a decade should do. I thought I had the emotional wherewithal to cast aside those words and only believe in what was sitting in front of me. I was wrong. The minute I said what I knew I could foresee how this played out from beginning to end.

H left. He left me there at the bar by myself and I didn’t follow him. I sat there for a moment in the silence. Instead of focusing on all I could control and some of the things that I could change or fix I immediately thought about her. I imagined them together in his bed. I wondered if she would keep extra pairs of underwear there or a toothbrush or ask him to buy her special soap for her sensitive skin. I wondered if she was the one all along. I don’t mean her specifically, but the idea of her. Maybe he had hoped she was out there, but I was just closer.

What if H and I just met to work out as much of our issues as we could? Now it’s time for us to walk away beat up, raw and exhausted and start to heal. I bet the next woman in H’s life won’t look for things. I hope for her there is nothing to find. 

H wants to buy me lingerie. He wants to pick it out himself. He wants to hand me a bag, watch me fold back the tissue layers and encourage me to wear it right then. I will wriggle into this lingerie or pull it over my head. I will put it on for H to take it off. 

I don’t know what kind of lingerie it will be. I’m still not sure what H finds sexy. He may hand over a baby doll nightgown or a chemise or a teddy. He may bring me a bustier or a thong or boy shorts and a tank top.

The one hint he did provide was related to color. H said he sees me in white. He asked what I thought about white silk or satin or lace on me in his bed.  

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell H to choose something in red or black or blue. I wanted to suggest gray or green or purple instead.

H is picturing me in something the color of chalk and cream and paper and seashells and I’m bothered by it. He is fantasizing about me draped in the color of milk and hospitals and brides. This is what he finds titillating, but I’m not sure I’ll feel provocative draped in the color of cleanliness and purity and winter.

I don’t hate white. It is in me. But I am also blackly sophisticated and mysterious and my reddest days are filled with enough rage to claw lines into H’s back. There are those gray days too when I hop out of bed cool and detached and skip the shower before I leave him.

H is not the first. I have always been wanted this way. Desirable when seen in a certain light. Appealing when wrapped in a chaste package.

I’m not sure what I will do when I get my lingerie. Perhaps I’ll try it on. I might set it aside to wear later. Or maybe I’ll throw the silkiness and the creased paper to the floor and kick the hardwood and shout. Then I’ll  tell H I know exactly what white means. White is predictable. White is safe. White is expected. 

Now excuse me as I hop off this virtuous platform. Forgive me if I bump into you climbing down this moral tower. I want to be other colors. I want to be all colors. I don’t always want to be fucked in white. 

It is April again and I’m pulling my sundresses out of the closet in the spare room. I am laying them on the bed one on top of the other. I am smoothing out the creases and taking note of the colors. A year ago, I was wearing them. A year ago, I was waking up early and putting on dresses and driving to him. One year ago, I was spending the entirety of my Fridays with H.

I’m thinking of one Friday in particular. I was wearing a long black sundress. I wear this dress with heels so I don’t trip on the hem. I pulled my hair back on these Fridays. I didn’t want it to stick to my face and the back of my neck and H’s house could get warm. By the time we got undressed and under the sheets and he wrapped himself around me, drops of sweat beaded up on him and he wiped them on his pillowcase. What he didn’t catch fell onto my cheek.

H and I met at one of our three favorite places. We met and we shared lunch. We had our Friday routines down. After we ate, we would go back to his house and work side-by-side on his couch. We may not have talked much, but I made sure my skin was always touching his.

That day H wasn’t interested in anything after lunch. He didn’t take my hand as we crossed the street and he barely grazed my face with a kiss. I didn’t ask H why. I lifted the hem of my dress to get over a knot in the sidewalk and then I did the last thing I wanted to do. I walked away from him on a Friday.

I didn’t beg H to take me home with him. I didn’t follow him to his car to find out why he was cutting us short. I did ask him if he was sure though. I walked away from H, but only after asking him to think about what he was deciding. I wanted to tell him we would run out of Fridays. I wanted to tell him Fridays don’t last. I want H to know I wish this April and all of the Aprils after were full to bursting with Fridays.

He was drinking out of my mug when I walked in. I bought it for him on a whim. I wanted to give the mug to him right away, but he wasn’t home that day. I put it in the window well on the side of his house and hoped it didn’t rain.

Buying the mug felt significant. This mug was tangible evidence of our relationship. He would be in possession of something I had picked out for him. He would use it and he would think of me. 

He was balancing the mug between his knees when I knocked. The door was open, but I tapped on it anyway. He hadn’t been in the new house long and his sectional couch was still in pieces. I had to climb over the largest portion to sit near him. We were at a point where I didn’t feel comfortable flopping against him and swinging my legs up onto his lap. I even made sure our knees didn’t touch.

What we were arguing about earlier that day is not important now. I remember the mug with the steam hitting his nose as he told me about the divorce. There were no raised surfaces to rest things on so he took sips and placed the mug near our feet. I shoved my hands under my knees. I didn’t want to reach out and touch his face while he talked.  

The air conditioning unit was not in the window yet. He smoothed out one of his handkerchiefs and pushed it across his scalp. He hates sweating. I grab him and kiss the beaded parts of his head all of the time now.

I didn’t kiss his head back then. Back then we were creating space between us. Back then we found reasons to shove hard and away. Back then there was no guaranteed next time. Back then I got him a mug so he wouldn’t forget. 

The day after is the worst. Twelve hours ago I was with you. Twelve hours ago we were sharing food and you got me a beer. You were rolling your eyes because I don’t drink Belgians in a glass. I was telling you I’m no nonsense about my drinking. A bottle suits me fine.

Just twelve hours ago I assured you people aren’t staring and wondering if we belong together. You said you see them and understand. You think about how we must look to them. You with all of your body art next to me in my dress and heels. I tell you I don’t notice and I don’t care.

I’m not sure what other people do on the day after. I started crying a half dozen times, but I stop myself. The tears make my eyes big and shiny. If I let them run the whole way down my face everyone will know. I write letters to you and delete them. I can find a hundred more ways to say what I’ve already said, but it’s just my way of hanging on too tightly.

I want to ask you about the symbol you got for us. Will you cover it with a watchband or a sleeve? I have nothing on me from our time. I don’t think I’ll need it. My skin is not marked, but our time is etched in. 

I found my favorite sunglasses today. They were lying at the bottom of a beach bag. They were wedged in a corner where sand had clumped together even though I had shaken the bag inside out. These sunglasses are huge. They span brow to cheek. I can feel them on my face when I smile.

It took me a long time to find them. Cost and style were not a factor.  Size and opacity mattered most. I bought them last summer on a day we were fighting. I got these sunglasses and I carried them with me. Sometimes I propped them up on my head. Sometimes they rested on the tablecloth at dinner between my fork and my water glass.

Most people wear sunglasses for fashion or practicality. My sunglasses were a disguise and they worked well for awhile. I wore them the day we sat by the river and I didn’t want to let on how far I had fallen. I shoved them onto the bridge of my nose when he turned and walked out of a restaurant. I hid behind my sunglasses so our spouses wouldn’t know he was the only one I could see. 

I found my sunglasses today. I found them and picked them up and looked at them and remembered. I threw them back in the bag I fished them out of because I didn’t think I would need them tonight.

I was right.

I am strong enough to bite back the tears on my own now. I don’t cry until after he leaves and I pay the bill and I’m outside walking alone to the car. The sunglasses wouldn’t have helped me much anyway. I couldn’t use them to fool anyone. This last time it was raining.

The last time we slept together I was wearing a baby doll tee and boy shorts. I had applied just enough make-up and was pretending to sleep. My phone touched the corner of my pillow near my cheek and it was set to ring and vibrate so I wouldn’t miss his call. I propped open the security door of the apartment building with a pen and left my front door unlocked so I didn’t even have to get out of bed.

It was 3 a.m. and I was ready.

He and I didn’t communicate much other than on the nights he stumbled here numb and barely coherent. I was prepared for his drunk call. I had been with him earlier at the bar. I had matched him drink-for-drink and watched him watch other women walk in.

I usually ignored him when he leered. Perfecting nonchalance had taken me a while, but I could do it well now. Most of the time he didn’t notice me noticing him. Tonight he must have sensed he was losing his grip.

“You know I only go home with you when you’re out, right?”

He nodded and smirked and elbowed me into a smile. I fixated on the first part of his sentence. The part about me being his “only”. The details didn’t matter. He had picked me.

My eyes are closed when he walks in, but not too tightly as to smudge my mascara. He hops out of his jeans and underwear in one motion and edges back onto the bed. I loop my arms around his waist. He shrugs free. He is uncomfortable being touched, which makes our attempt to come together fumbling and unsuccessful. I felt the fleshy softness on my leg as he unintentionally slid away from me.

I didn’t reach out to tug him back. I stared at the ceiling and then over into the corner at the red lace and pink and blue satin nighties in a big, sexy heap. The black camisole and matching thong were on top. I should have worn the black. Women who are chosen for trysts like ours know these things. But I was just a stand-in. I was still learning. 

My dad’s infidelity is well documented. Details about he and one of his girlfriends are included as evidence in a court case. She was an accessory to his crime. She worked at a bank and lied for him about money saved in an account that he had never opened. My dad’s girlfriend didn’t do time. He did and because he did, we did.

Thirty years later my mom is locked in the bathroom with my dad’s cell phone. I know this because I was talking to him and he was shouting about her trying to kill him for something he didn’t do. She had more wine that she normally does on a Friday. She had waited for my dad to leave the room and she had grabbed his phone and started scrolling. My mom found exactly what she expected to find.  

My dad would not tell me what the messages said. He was focused on convincing me he had done nothing wrong. Innocent flirtation can be misinterpreted you know, especially after the third glass of Pinot Noir. He wanted me to come to their house and protect him. He wanted me to talk her out of doing something stupid. He wanted me to say I believed him so she would believe.

My mom sent me a photo the next day. It was a picture of a huge vase of flowers on the kitchen table. She said she probably blew things out of proportion. She misinterpreted the correspondence she saw between my dad and that woman. You know how she always exaggerates. She figures she’s been overreacting this way for years.

I think about her now, fiddling with flowers in a vase. Everything she needed to see was there, but she wouldn’t look. Her way was simpler. Accept the excuses and patch up the holes. Fill gaps in the stories with all of the scenarios and possibilities. Believe because it is easier. Trust when it is no longer warranted. Rearrange the roses for another photograph. Take the picture so you don’t forget. 

I am lying on the couch and he is sitting cross-legged on the floor. My head is resting on the arm with the most ink and I brush my fingers back and forth over the markings as my hair falls onto his palm.

I long for this version of him sometimes. I ache for this on the days when he is foggy and scattered and uneven. I know I should say it.  I should grip his arm a little tighter and look up and tell him I wish he were always this present. I should let him know that when he is cloudy and muddled and broken, we no longer make sense.

Instead I run my hands along his surfaces and enjoy him while he is here. I memorize being with him. I don’t want to forget how good it feels when we are at rest and at peace and cradled in a moment.

He told me I was his gift for surviving. We were lying there and he said it and I didn’t know how to respond.

He thanked me first. He said he was grateful for me and he ticked off attributes like he had memorized them in a certain order. He kept one arm tucked under me and he uncurled the fingers on his other hand from a fist one-by-one as he listed them. He said words like “empathy” and “compassion” and “understanding” and I nodded as if he was talking about someone else. 

I curled up tightly and I turned into him. I tucked my chin and pressed it to his chest. I didn’t know I wanted to hear him say what he said until he did. And then I couldn’t figure out how to tell him that. 

His breath was on my face when he told me I was his gift. I didn’t say anything. I just took it in. 

I wasn’t supposed to be sitting here. I was never supposed to be at this desk working at this company in this town. I hadn’t imagined myself married or a mother and I certainly had not planned to be this tired.

I attached my goals to birthdays. By 25, I was going to be on a career path. By 30, I would be living in another country. By 35, I was supposed to have moved back to the states and either started a non-profit or landed a government job. Today, 40 is chasing me and I don’t have a career. I do have a job. It’s an ok job, but it’s nothing I aspired to be. I am married and we have a child. Having kids was never part of my plan, but my son has been the best deviation. I am neither a diplomat nor an Executive Director and I can’t recall why I wanted to be any of those things in the first place.

H’s next milestone birthday is 45. He’s trying to get it together by then. He says he is referring to his career and getting into better mental and physical shape. I know he is also talking about us. He’s right you know. There has to be a deadline. We need to set a date for all of this to end.

Last night, H was wondering about his eyesight. He notices when he picks something up to read, he holds it at arms length first and then slowly brings it into his line of sight. We joked about him becoming an old man. I think about what the old man will look like and how he will be.

When I met H six years ago, he didn’t celebrate his birthday. He wouldn’t even tell anyone the date. He saw no benefit in living past whatever age he was at that time.  This year we went to dinner for H’s birthday and right now we are talking about Saturday plans and guessing when the tree in his window will start to bloom.

H hadn’t planned to live. My life plan had never come to be. We both failed. For that I am grateful.

My son has woken up crying three nights in a row.  His tears are not silent and he is not whimpering in his sleep. His sobs are guttural and primal. His sobs are full of discomfort and fear.

My husband C and I tried whatever we could think of to soothe him. A pacifier, a drink, rocking and walking did not stop his flailing and the scratching. Whispering in his ear and lifting the blind to look outside did not stop his screaming and punching.

I thought putting cool water on his face might calm him. My mother’s remedy for everything is a washcloth to the forehead. He stopped before I could turn on the water. He was fixated on something. He was staring at a framed picture of us on the wall. My son was focusing on a photo of me with C 12 years ago.

I pulled the photo down and marveled at how young we were then. Did C really have that many freckles? There were no lines around my eyes or deep rivets in-between my brows. My skin was glowing from a day at the beach and we took the photo ourselves. C had extended his arm and snapped us himself and the photo came out perfectly.

My son reached for the photo. He grabbed it from me and ran into our bedroom. I lifted him up to sit on the bed. He smiled, looked at the picture again and then clutched it to his chest. He held it close to him, flopped back onto the pillow and readied himself for sleep.

C and I said we would never have kids. We didn’t offer each other reasons back then. I think we knew it would be hard on us. We sensed it would wear on our relationship. We did it anyway and then thought it was necessary to abandon each other for a while. 

We drifted off to different places. We turned to opposite ends. We looked away from each other and we did it just long enough that my son lost sight of us too. My son hadn’t really seen us. He didn’t know what we looked like. At least now he has a picture. 

I want to scoop you up and take you home.

H whispered this to me before mouthing I love you. My husband C and our friends were deciding where to go next and H and I were figuring out how to make a casual goodbye convincing. I wasn’t interested in plotting out the rest of the night. I wanted time to mourn the ending of mine.

H and I are not bar types. We don’t relish hopping from one to the other until our conversations trail off into slurs. We had to do this tonight though. We were celebrating with C and C likes big gatherings. He loves being with people who don’t know him well.

H had done what he thought he should do. He joined us for the obligatory two-drinks-and-an-appetizer. Now he was ready to go.  H wanted me to come with him. H wished we could walk out together.

I started to miss him while he was standing in front of me. I imagined the next four or five hours without H and I missed him so much I had to walk away first. I pressed my head up against the door of the bathroom stall and counted to 50. I half-hoped he’d be gone when I came out.

He wasn’t.

H can’t hug me or grab my hand or throw his arm around me. He can’t pay our bill and hand me my clutch and help me with my jacket and walk me to our car. He can’t make a joke about how the lame older folks were going home to put on our pajamas and fall asleep on the couch before 10 p.m. H can’t do any of those things, but he would never leave me without saying goodbye. 

When you tell me you are brushing your teeth, I can see it. I can see you standing in front of the mirror still fogged over from your shower. To the left of you are your glasses and toothpaste and your medications.

In front of you is your saline and contact case and hand cream. In front of you is my toothbrush and my body lotion. My body lotion is vanilla. It is my body lotion, but when I rub it on and I smell it, I smell you.

When you tell me you are brushing your teeth I can see it. I can see it because I am there. I’ve left my things. I’ve left pieces of me so I can always picture you.