Three years after Danny created a Facebook profile, I filed for a divorce. My husband was a married man in the throes of a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of thirty-five.
The interference of social media hid Danny?s emotional affairs in plain sight. Oh, they are just old friends, he lamented, when confronted with the lengthy Messenger verbiage and pictorial assaults.
The faceless agony of my miscarriage distorted my ability to grieve when the days seemed so normal. I damned the world and its propensity to revolve. My soul shrunk, cringing to disconnect, seeking to invade the shadowy spaces of the one-bedroom apartment we still share. Subverting Danny?s platitudes to an awkward silence, I would only nod. Our gazes divert to the periphery of our forgotten love. The shopping cart in my Amazon Prime account betrayed my inability to move on as I ceaselessly perused and added to the pinks, blues, and greens. ?You weren?t ready,? he?d said.
The aroma of cinnamon rolls, oven-fresh, filled the room. He sipped his black coffee and licked the tip of a finger for the sticky sweetness. My eyes followed this singular fastidious mannerism. Solely mine to contemplate, mine to equate with proprietary glee, mine to hate. He was the one who cheated. He was the one who was on social media pretending that he was single.
My teeth sunk into a warm doughy roll, as I paced the kitchen. My throat rebelling, swallowing, dry, and closed. Why do I feel hurt? Should I believe him when he said it was just innocent flirting and that he didn?t sleep with anyone else? The time he spent on social media, I wanted to rant. The emotional connection to whomever. We will be leaving tomorrow to visit his parents in Albany, New York. After this trip, I swear, I will sign those papers, I convinced myself.
The early morning sky was grey with barely glinting hints of light, cloudless and reclusive. The cool and refreshing air sauntered in through the open car windows, as the soothing tones from a Beatles? song, The End, comforted. Shadows of emotions trickled like a broken faucet, through my veins, hot and cold, secretive and new. ?The love you take is equal to the love you make?, crooned as a heady feeling of nostalgia sank into my bones. Reminisces of our lovemaking, sweaty and naughty, or smooth and fluid. Gripping and holding tight to the giddiness of the afterglow in that sweet space, tired and centered. As young and hungry as we were, in good old Brooklyn, we inhabited the quiet and dark spaces with frenzied lust; the last row of a theater, or under the loading and unloading platforms at the Met grocery store, or on the L train at midnight. All left with the echoes of our grateful sighs.
This is his plan, I fumed. He is always purposeful, not moved by the ups and downs of life?s challenges. I need to focus on what makes me happy. Biting my tongue, eyes burned, my thoughts vacillated from the music to his perfect eyebrows, plump upper lip, and the casual ease with which he handled the steering wheel of this powerful car. He strummed the circular protrusion with his long fingers, flexing and tender with such delicacy and gentleness.
?I saw your friend Susan on Wednesday.? The nonchalance of the tone and words from Danny contrasted sharply with the rigidity of his profile.
My heart hammered in my chest. Convulsing in preparation for the words I must utter, singular, and dismissive.
?Is there something I missed?? He continued in a questioning manner.
Susan started working at JTL about a year ago. We became fast friends and before I knew it. We had kissed.
The soft lyrics breathe into the silence. The lush greenery shrouded to the morning sunrise, light and dark, forcing intimacy, as the asphalt stretched over the horizon. Danny?s mouth clenched then released with a pout and a slow wash of his tongue, as if over parched lips.
I fed my anger and shame with remembrances of his text messages and social media posts. Rehearsing comments to retaliate.
He switched to Bob Marley?s, One Love. Tears ached behind my eyes. Danny was now singing along. His eyes hooded, canvassing. His mouth wide, tongue curling, seemingly tasting the words.
?Nothing happened,? I finally entreated, my voice high and reedy.
?I know?, Danny responded, turning down the volume. ?I spoke to her. She is in love with you.
Do you know what you really want??
I looked up into his eyes, my gaze tracing his thick brows, and sensitive upper lip. ?I want you,? I said quietly.
?We can do this,? he responded. ?We both made mistakes.?
My chest tightened. I was falling, dismantling remembered ghosts of discontent and vanity.
?I didn?t sign the papers,? I said. ?Do you want to do this for real??
?Yes, for reals,? he responded. ?You are the mother of my future children.?
We turned into the long driveway of his parents? four-bedroom bungalow. A warm release besieged my limbs. Tears again pushed against the reservoir.
His mother answered the door and enveloped me in a breathy hug, carrying the familiar smells of curry with cumin. She squeezed my shoulders and I dug my face into her salt and pepper braids, as a warm flow redden my eyes. She smiled and touched my face, the smoothness of her thumbs erasing any heartache.
?I?m hungry, Auntie,? I whispered in my mother in law?s ear. I called her Auntie in that honorary way Island folk called an older person. I blink furiously at the realization that this is my family. They are my family. I am a part of this family.
?He said he wants a baby,? I whispered, eyes wet and wide. ?A baby.?
Her arms tightened cementing a hug love, family, and grace. ?I know sweetheart, I know,? she breathed into the embrace. ?You are home. You are Home.?
Topic: Another Woman - Draft 3 (Read 764 times)