It was evident when he walked in the door that the taxing day he thought he’d left behind at work had left within him a residue of bewilderment he managed to carry with him all the way home.
She couldn’t help but notice he was ill-at-ease upon entering. She hadn’t learned what ideas or emotions should be associated with his facial expressions and gestures yet, since their union was still in bloom, but she was confident in her intuitive abilities. Though she was often presumptuous, she opted to provide the sort of interactive work that is instinctive to women in her culture. She first inquired as to how he was feeling and how his day had gone and as he spoke she looked him directly in the eyes, nodded occasionally and provided supportive “mhm’s” and “yeah’s”.
At times her gaze drifted to his moving lips, to his jaw (jaws were always her weakness) and outlined the periphery of his face. She knew it well already, but even though she believed she could map it with her eyes closed, her desire to visually explore it never waned. She caught herself lost in the concavities and convexities of his face and was able to realign herself with the dialogue just in time to hear his voice trail off. Her relief that he’d not seen her doting quickly turned to frustration when she realized his countenance showed he was elsewhere, and she wasn’t there with him. And even worse, she didn’t feel invited. There was something different within him that day but she didn’t want to deduce anything irrationally.
He was distant and although her ego immediately made her think it had something to do with her–with something she was or wasn’t doing, had or hadn’t done–she decided to stop being so self-absorbed and focus on him. He hadn’t been going into terrible depth, merely regurgitating the days tasks, but she didn’t want to prod him further, not knowing how willing he would be to elaborate and not sure of her place in knowing more.
It didn’t take her long to understand he wasn’t going to be receptive to verbal communication at the time. They found each other staring at empty spaces on walls–one lost in thought, the other in search of substance, both desiring to appease one another, but failing.
The sound of disconnect had never been louder between them. She heard it like a loud gong within the recesses of her skull, the quaking emanating from the epicenter of her mind. She couldn’t bear it any longer, so she got up from the couch they’d both been sitting on and walked toward their bathroom door. She turned back to face him and asked, “Would you like me to draw you a bath?”
“Yes,” was his calm yet curt reply.
Filling their bathtub with aromatic salts and warm water, she dimmed the recessed lights to a comforting level, so as not to create any more tension for his vision. As she was slipping out of her clothes and into her robe, he remained sat on the couch thinking of how he should be focusing on how fortunate he is and letting go of what ails him. His trance was interrupted by the sight of her form revealed from the darkness of their bedroom and the reflection of light from the common area glimmering on her crimson satin robe. He watched her put her hair up with a sort of controlled sloppiness that he imagined no one else could achieve. His eyes followed the line of her forearm and elbow to where her arm met the robe’s sleeve, her eyes serenely closed all the while. For a moment, he became lost in the realization that the color red makes her skin tone look exceptionally radiant but his line of thought was derailed when he found her staring back at him, waiting for him to make a move
“Are you done gawking? It’s not staying warm forever.”
She made her way to the bathroom again and turned back, expecting to see him lagging–hopefully not too far behind–but he was staring again, still on the couch. She walked over, grabbed his hands, and led him to the tub. It seemed painful for him to look her in the eyes, but she maintained her silence.
She stood him in the center of the room and lifted his left palm to her mouth with her right hand. Kissing it gently, she watched his eyes close as she puckered her lips against his tepid palm.
She knelt before him and removed his shoes. She looked incredibly small from such distance. He wondered how many times she’d done this before.
While slowly unlacing them, she was reminded of when she’d last done this before. The nostalgia of taking off her father’s shoes in her youth made her feel small again. She felt a rippling warmth emanating from her core while she set his shoes aside. Slowly sliding her hand up his calf and down, she removed one sock, then the other. She stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. He slid it off and she folded it then placed it on the counter. His trousers and underwear were last to go, which she removed with patience. They were folded and placed next to his shirt.
He glanced at the water, frozen in place.
She reached in to check its temperature and ran the hot water again.
“You can get in now,” she said gently.
He stepped in slowly and sat down. She rested herself on the back of the tub and reached for a sponge, soaked it and began to rub it against his shoulders, arms, and back. She brought it back to his shoulders and neck, then down his chest. He caught her softly by the wrist, “When are you joining me?”
She smiled and removed her robe, slowly sliding in behind him. She extended her legs over his and embraced his back, resting her hands on his chest and kissing his neck. She closed her eyes and held him for a while. She broke her silence by asking, “How are you feeling?”
He inhaled so deeply, she was surprised for a moment at how much his ribcage expanded within her embrace.
She’d lost him again. To the wall—to that other place he’d been all evening long.
She squeezed him and finally mustered the courage to make a request, “Please, tell me.”
“I…can’t…”
“Let me help you”
“It’s…too difficult”
“What can I do?”
“Just keep doing this”
So she did. She did just that. But after a few minutes of silence, she felt his breathing grow more intense. His eyes were closed and he drew his body inward, slowly freeing himself from her legs. She kept her arms around his waist and pressed the trunk of her body completely against his back and cradled him. He shuddered in her grasp, then began to sob. His trembling shook her, but she didn’t let go.
The sound and sight of a strong man weeping is unforgettable.
It pained her to see him like this, but she wanted him to know she was willing to experience this with him. She rested her head on his back and was overwhelmed by tears of her own. She ached to remove this hurt from within him, but how could she if he refused to answer her questions?
Shortly after the tears subsided she dried him and put him in bed.
“Don’t leave me,” he said in a hushed whisper.
That night he slept peacefully on her bosom, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. In the darkness, her sight was fixed on where the walls would be, given some light.
[Okay, I just spewed that in about 2 hours. I’d appreciate any constructive criticism. I envision it like a film sequence. The writing style seems a bit awkward because of it, I think. Is this WORTH PURSUING?]
Jenka Potente's meandering mind. 