Writer In Motion Forum

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 had damned the world and its propensity to revolve. My soul shrunk, cringing to disconnect, seeking to invade the shadowy spaces of our one-bedroom apartment. Subverting Danny?s platitudes to awkward silences, I would only nod. Our gazes diverted 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, ushering out memories of the past into the barren expanse of the present. Danny sipped his black coffee then traced the tip of a finger around the gooey spirals of his roll, circling, and licking 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, my lips set, eyes narrowing.
 
My teeth sunk into a warm doughy roll, as I paced the kitchen. My throat rebelled, as I swallowed, 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. 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 Saturday 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 of the Beatles? 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. I bit my tongue, eyes burning to decimate. 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. My mouth opened wide. I wanted to discomfit him. I tugged on the words churning in my head. Coward. Adulterer. Traitor. But only air escaped betraying my confusion and despair, amplifying the trembling silence.

?Is there something I missed?? He continued in a questioning manner.
 
Susan had started working at JTL about a year ago. We became fast friends and before I knew it. We had kissed.
 
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 bowed my head 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, Kathy.? He looked at me then turned away. ?We both made mistakes.? His voice seemed deeper, his tone careful and tender, ?I am ready.?
 
My chest tightened. I was falling, dismantling remembered ghosts of blame and discontent.  ?I didn?t sign the papers,? I said. ?Do you want to do this for real??
 
?Yes, for reals,? he responded hoarsely, blinking. ?You are the mother of my future children.?
His right hand felt for and squeezed my fingers.

Danny?s voice broke, the lingering tendrils resonating in the close confines. ?I?m ready,? he repeated softly.

***

We turned into the long driveway of his parents? four-bedroom bungalow. A warm release besieged my limbs. Tears 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.?
 
 

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.
 
What happened to the good old days of those hidden furtive affairs in motels and parking lots? Or in some lover?s lane, grinding on each other to Bob Marley or the Beatles.
 
Where we are from the Islands, intercourse is referred to as ?commonness.? Here in good old Brooklyn, we call it lovemaking. When I?m peaking, sweaty, and naughty, I would say fucking. Then holding tight to the giddiness of afterglow in that sweet space, tired and centered, I?d whisper rom pom. In this place, a concrete jungle, as young and hungry as we were, quiet and dark spaces were left with the echoes of our sighs; the last row of the theater, or under the loading and unloading platforms at the Met grocery store, or on the L train at midnight.
 
?We need to talk.?
 
Those were the first words Danny grunted in my presence in more than a week. The aroma of cinnamon rolls, oven-fresh, filled the room. He sipped his black coffee and licked the tip of a finger to the sticky sweetness. My gaze was drawn to 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. My throat rebelling, swallowing, dry and closed. I grimace and gaze into a cup of creamy hazelnut goodness. Why do I now feel hurt? Should I have taken the higher road and confronted him?
 
Those four little words convinced me that I must listen. Danny murmured something about the city, our jobs, and us needing time to reconnect.
 
The early morning sky was grey with barely glinting hints of light, cloudless and reclusive. With the windows down, the cool and refreshing air sauntered in like the Beatles down Abbey Road. The soothing tones, the lyrics intertwining in my brain with tumultuous musings of fidelity and loyalty. Shadows of emotions trickled like a broken faucet, through my veins, hot and cold, secretive, new, faltering, changing. The warm leather seat, ?something in the way he moves?, a heady feeling of nostalgia, sinking into my bones. 

My heart, still filled with seeds of discontent, pulsed with sprouts of regret. A longing for the days when we were breathing for each other, breaths mingling, gazes enthralled.

This is his plan, I surmised. He is always purposeful, not excitable to the ups and downs of life?s challenges. He knew what he was doing. I need to focus on what makes me happy. Biting my tongue, eyes burning, I unwillingly surrendered my thoughts away from the music, his perfect eyebrows, his plump upper lip, and the casual ease with which he handled the steering wheel of this powerful car, and how he strummed the circular protrusion with his long fingers, a remembered strength to my cares.
 
?I saw your friend Susan on Wednesday.?

The nonchalance of the tone and words from Danny, contrasted 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 release with a pout and a slow wash of his tongue, as if over parched lips.
 
He reached and gently grasp my left hand with his right. 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 is now singing along. His gaze towards the road, his mouth wide, curling, and tasting the words. Shoulders swaying, caressing the rhythms.

?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?? he said curtly.
 
I looked up into his eyes, my gaze tracing his thick brows, and sensitive upper lip.

?I want you,? I said quietly.
 
He placed both hands on the steering wheel. Right index finger stroking the brown plush. Finally, he responded, ?we can do this.?
 
We both made mistakes, he continued.

My chest tightened, I was falling, dismantling remembered ghosts of discontent and vanity.

Danny did not ask any of the questions that I was expecting.
 
?Do you want to do this for real?? I repeated.
 
We were both out of our depths. Each other?s firsts and swimming against the tide.
 
?Yes, for reals,? he responded.

?You are the future mother of my 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 prolonged the hug and I dug my face into her salt and pepper braids. She smiled and touched my face, the smoothness of her thumbs erasing the tears I had tried for hours to anesthetized as now they escaped from the corners of my eyes.

?I?m hungry,? Aunty, I whispered, looking at my mother in law. I called her Aunty 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.

?He said he wants a baby,? I whispered, eyes wet and wide. ?A baby.?

Another Woman

Three years after Danny created a Facebook profile, I filed for divorce. I didn?t want to. But what could I do? My husband was a married man in the throes of a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of thirty-five.

What happened to the good old days of those hidden furtive affairs in motels and parking lots. Or in some lovers lane, grinding on each other to Bob Marley or the Beatles.

When you are from the Islands, like we are, you called it commonness. Here in good old Brooklyn, we call it love making. I sometimes jokingly call the act intercourse or when I felt naughty I would say fucking, or when I felt grateful for the connection or for the momentary rush of addicting pleasure, I called it rom pom. In this place, a concrete jungle, as young and hungry as we were, we were doing it at the back of the theater, or at the back of Met grocery store, or on the L train at midnight.

We had a good life. Married for ten years. No children. Busy with our careers. Most of my extended family live in Brooklyn. His family now live in upstate NY. Their suburbia. Albany. Cold in the winter. Hot in the summer. And green in the spring. It is there he now wants to visit. It would be my first time. I don?t know what to expect. I?m fed up. We are now done.

?We need to talk.?

Those were the first words he grunted to me in more than a week. He was the one who cheated. He was the one who was on social media pretending he was single. Why do I now feel hurt, ? should I have taken the higher road and confronted him. No. he should not have waited so long after I sent him the screen shot of the text messages I found. Is it my ego?

We are in the car and going to Albany. His mother wants to talk to me. He mummur something about the city, our jobs, and us needing time to reconnect. We hadn?t had sex in over six months. Well, now I know why.

With the city a long way behind us, the interstate now late spring was sparse of the traffic I expected.

The early morning sky was clear and cloudless. With the windows down, the cool and refreshing air sauntered in like the Beatles down Abbey Road. The soothing tones, the lyrics interwining in my brain with the tumultuous feelings and musings of fidelity, loyalty, infidelity, and hope. All germinating, the echoes of emotions trickling through my veins, hot and cold, hidden, secretive, new, and faltering, changing. The classic created a heady feeling sinking into my bones with nostalgia.

I am not sure when I began to feel less angry and more anxious. My heart was still filled with seeds of discontent and some pulsations of regret. A little less angry and a sudden longing for the days when we were breathing for each other, breaths mingling, gazes enthralled.
I am now fuming that this is his plan, he is always purposeful not excitable to the ups and downs of life's challenges. He knew what he was doing. I need to focus more on what makes me happy. I am willing my thoughts away from the music, his perfect eyebrows, his plump upper lip, and the casual ease with which he handles the steering wheel and this powerful car, strumming with his fingers, a remembered strength to my cares.

I met your friend Susan on Wednesday. We had a long conversation.

I did not answer right away. My heart hammered in my chest. Convulsing in preparation for the words I must utter, singular and dismissive, prohibiting that I must tell the truth.

Yes

She came on strong. Told me her truth. Is there something I missed.

Susan started working at JTL LLC about a year ago. We became fast friends and before I knew it. We had kissed.

I love my work, the close friends who really know me and my new best friend Susan.

The soft lyrics breathe into the silence.

The lush greenery lightens and darken on both sides of the road. Danny?s mouth clenched. I know he is angry. His personality is not one to display his emotions readily. He is what we call a slow boil. It takes him long to display any semblance of how he feels. This is going to be a long drive.

I still did not answer him when he reached and gently grasp my left hand with his right. I could not look at him. I fed my anger with rememberances of his text messages and social media posts. Rehearsing comments to retaliate.

He switched to Bob Marley. The soothing tone singing One Love. Tears ached behind my eyes. I sniffed and turned my face to the receding foliage, billboards, and traffic signs. I cannot bear to look in his direction. He is now singing along. His gaze towards the road, his mouth curling tasting the words and caressing the rhythms. How dare he be happy. This ride this going away to talk, he said was not his idea. Who was he listening to?

We turned into the long driveway of his parents four-bedroom bungalow. The two-acre expanse a glorious abstract. A warm release besieged my limbs. Tears again pushed against the reservoir.

The cabin was surrounded by white flowers, contrasting with greens, thick underbrush with an old barn or a large hut in the deepening brush and trees. Danny?s family?s cabin. I had heard about it. His boyhood spent running, building treehouses, canoeing on the adjoining lake, and the nighttime campfires. This is my first time. Ten years of marriage right out of college and now we are here.

His parents visited Brooklyn twice a month and with the busyness of life, I was always too engaged to reciprocate. His mother now answered the door and enveloped me with a breathy hug, carrying the familiar smells of curry and cumin and geehra. She prolonged the hug and I dug my face into her salt and pepper braids, not looking at Danny or his dad or even his sister as they all stood watching and pretending that I was the same person I was five years ago.

I?m hungry, I said looking at my mother in law. I called her Aunty in that honorary way Island folk called an older person. She smiled and touched my face, the smoothness of her thumbs erasing the tears I had tried for hours to anesthetize as they trickled from the corner of my eyes. I blinked furiously as the realization that this family, Danny, and I? They are my family?

Name: NetaQ
Preferred Pronouns: She/Her

Bio: NetaQ was born and raised in Georgetown, Guyana, With Guyana as the only English speaking country in South America, she grew up speaking Guyanese Patwah, a form of English complementing the many languages and dialects spoken in the region. Living in New York, Germany, Louisiana, and now Maryland has allowed Neta to observe and discover her writing voice and a passion for understanding the inner lives and voices of people. Neta is a substitute teacher and loves to share her stories and poetry with family and friends.

My writing life?
I write mainly poems. I enjoy the introspective nature of poems and the quiet, sweet, or furious demeanor of daily living that allows me to inhale the words that I need to write. I am also trying to write short stories and flash. This is more of a struggle as it reveals my weaknesses in storytelling and finding my authentic writing voice. I love the fact that I am still learning and growing and I can't wait to see who I become as a writer after WIM.

My Reading Life?
I read short stories, poems, science fiction, fantasy, and romance. I love reading poems by Emily Dickinson. Some of my favorite novelists are Daniel Silva, Nalini Singh, Dan Brown, Liane Moriarty, Jackie Collins, James Baldwin, and J. California Cooper. My favorite novels to date are A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Sarah's Key, The Shack, A Woman of Substance, and Between The World and Me.

What I am working on right now?
I am working on a middle-grade novel tentatively titled - Sideways John. I am always writing poetry and scenes for short stories that might not see the light of day.

My Writer In Motion Project:
Adult fiction, tentatively titled - Another Woman

Connect With Me:
netaqblog.wordpress.com
@NetaQ2