Stalemate

I hear you rumbling in the kitchen drawer, looking for a spoon I suppose.  It is 5:47 a.m., and you will eat cereal and drink coffee.  Like you have done for the past twenty-three years.

I shuffle out of the room in the bathrobe your mom gave me two Christmases ago.  I watch you, but you are blind to me.  It’s against routine for me to be out here.  I should be in the shower, I should be putting makeup on. 

Instead, I long to see you.  I want you to look at me, smile, and pull me onto your lap.  I want to taste the coffee where your lips have touched, I want to look into your eyes and see the man I love.  He disappeared, like coins that slip between the couch cushions. 

I take a cup out of the cupboard and pour some coffee, no cream.  You don’t notice me until I sit across the table from you and you have to move your feet off the bottom rung of my chair.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, and your amber eyes float over the Times.  You don’t mean it in the way I mean it.  You suppose our daughter has a fever or the tire has gone flat.  I shake my head ever so slightly and you go back to your paper.

I sip.  The coffee is warm and comforting, unlike our conversation.  The table between us feels like a continent.  No matter how far I stretch, I can’t reach you.  I sit across from you, feeling so much.  But when I put my emotions to words, the sentiment is lost in translation. 

The window above the sink is open, and a September breeze ruffles the hair on my arms.  I clear my throat, trying to get the courage to speak.  I won these tickets, I want to say, to Florida. Miami actually. 

My tongue hangs limp in my mouth and I feel its weight against my teeth.  I cannot speak and you cannot listen, so I guess we are at an impasse.

I leave the kitchen and do what I am supposed to do, take my shower and put my makeup on.  I hear you calling goodbye to me before the door closes and I refuse to cry.  It will ruin my mascara. 

I look stunning in a tailored shirt, the color of our pool lit up at night.  I’m not beautiful, I know; but somehow I manage to be stunning.  My face is seasoned with freckles and my lips are always on the verge of opening.  My eyes are a color the crayon companies haven’t created yet, somewhere between Outer Space and Midnight Blue.

I pick up my phone and send a text.  Next thing I know, I’m on a plane.  First class, direct flight to Miami.  I smile at the man sitting next to me.  He’s married, I know.  He proudly sports his ring and I have seen their wedding picture next to the bed.  He reaches over and takes my hand and I snuggle into the crook of his arm.  When I close my eyes, I can pretend this is my husband, my lover, the man my husband can never be.  As I doze, I wonder.  When exactly did he slip through the cushions?