Early mornings were usually my most favorite time of day. That moment when I just start to open my eyes and look out the window, seeing the light from the sun start to pour into our bedroom.
It was also this time of the day when he was the most loving; and when I wasn’t thinking about the time of the day when he was the least.
I would usually shift around a little, let out a sigh, snuggle into my pillow a little more and watch the world wake up. That’s when I would feel it. His hand first, then his arm, as it slid over my waist. Then his chest as it pressed against my back. It was at this time of the early morning when I would begin to think about it.
This was the only thing I knew she never got.
After his chest it was his lips, pressing gently against my hair. Then his nose, lightly brushing over my skin. Then his lips again as they pressed a trail down my neck, stopping at my shoulders. It was at this time of the day when my hand would reach back and thread my fingers into his hair, encouraging him to continue.
It was at this time of the day when I would stop thinking about it, because I was distracted by his arms pulling my back flush against his chest. It was this time of the day when all thoughts were of him, and none were of her. His body molded itself into mine and for once we felt like one person instead of two strangers.
It was this time of the day when I would wonder how she felt with him.
Afterwards we were both fully awake. A lazy morning always started the day right, even if we both knew the day would go horribly wrong by the end. At least we tried.
I lay in bed while he took a shower, washing himself of me, and I half contemplated jumping in with him and undoing all his hard work. Instead I stayed in bed. It was Friday, which meant he would get home later than usual. He claims because of work, but I know the real reason.
I rolled over onto my back when he finally stepped out of the bathroom, hair slicked back with water and hair gel, his work pants on and his shirt half buttoned with a tie draped around his neck.
“I’ll be home late tonight.” He reminded me. He always reminded me.
He sat in the chair, tying his shoes and then stood. He began fumbling with his tie, struggling with it until I pushed myself out of bed and did it for him. I kept my eye on his neck as I twisted and looped, until it looked perfect. I always made sure it looked perfect.
“Thanks babe.” He breathed, adjusting the tightness to his liking and reaching to grab his jacket. He kissed my cheek and just like that, was walking out of the room.
“I’ll see you later tonight.” He called back to me.
“Okay.” I called back, standing there in the same spot.
It was this time of day when I only thought about it.
I slowly sat down on the floor. I heard the car engine start, the sound slowly fading away, drowned by the distance he was putting between us. It was this time of the day when the tears would begin falling. This was usually when I was hysterically hopeless, the feeling of betrayal at its most fervent.
This time of the day went by quickly.
When I got up I went to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine. I just had to pass the time. I took a sip, then grabbed a large empty water bottle, pouring the wine into it and grabbing the car keys. The ones to his precious convertible. The classic 78’ Mustang. Red and flashy.
I revved the engine and headed north like I always did at this time of the day. The bottle in the passenger seat. It was this time of the day when I felt the most carefree. When I didn’t care what he was doing, or who he was doing.
This time of the day would go by steadily, marked by songs on the radio, scenic drives through the backroads of upstate New York, and gas station stops where I would get looks from the ladies and compliments from the men.
When the time came, I would retrace the miles back to my driveway, the sun setting and groceries in the back seat.
It was this time of the day when I felt hopeless again. I was chained to this routine. Friday nights I made chicken because it was his least favorite meal and I knew he wouldn’t be eating it.
I would eat dinner alone, a re-rerun of my favorite show in front me, the images reflecting off the glass of wine in my hand, taking my mind off what was happening just miles from where he left me.
It was this time of the night when I didn’t think about her. It’s funny how a look from across the room can suddenly make your mind go blank, all except for the person who’s giving you that look.
It was this time of the night when I felt like only his. I wasn’t sharing. And I wasn’t thinking about how she knew. I never told him that she saw us in the bar that one night. How our eyes locked as he pulled me into the bathroom in the back corner like he always did. I never told him while he ran his hands over me, while he took off my pants, or my shirt. I didn’t say a word when he ran his hands over my body, pulling me against him.
I never told him after we finished, while we were clumsily putting ourselves back together in the one-person bathroom. I never told him she was nowhere to be found when we stepped out of that bathroom. I never told him then, or the many times we did it again after that night.
It was this time of the night when he smiled the most. When he laughed at what people were saying, when he subconsciously put his hands on my waist, when he acted like it was just me and him.
It was then this time of the night when there were finally enough drinks in him. When he almost couldn’t keep his lips off mine. He would grab my hand and take me to the bathroom in the back corner, and we would be in our own little world again, where nothing mattered except for the things he was saying he was going to do to me.
It was the best time of the night.
After that, it was the time of the night when he would be sad. He knew our time was up, like it always was. There was always one more drink, one last taste of being together in an intimate setting.
Then it would be the time of the night when he seemed to miss her. He didn’t respond to my hand on his thigh, or my lips on his jaw, silently proposing we go for round two back at my place. He would shake his head with a smile, say he had to get home. He would pick up the tab and kiss me, but it was the time of the night when the kiss was different. I watched him leave the bar and hail a cab, always saying he’d see me in the morning when he came back to get his car. But he never did. So I’d watch him leave and try to take my mind off of what he was going home to, just miles from where he left me.
It was that time of the night when I was only thinking about her. Taxi rides will do that to you. You’ll pass by all these apartments, more and more as you get further from the busy downtown streets. You’d sometimes get a glimpse of the people inside those apartments and see how happy they are. They’re content with what they have. A home, a person who loves them. Stability.
It was that time of the night when I wished the cab driver would go faster, get me home to her as fast as possible. I would pull my phone out, shoot her a text and say I’d be home soon. She’d respond back “okay” and it was then I would realize that’s all she’d said to me that entire day.
Jesus. I was an asshole. It was that time of the night when I’d realize it.
The best time of the night was when the cab pulled up to our little house. The one I carried her through. The one we lived together in and loved each other in. I would trudge up to the front door, seeing the light come on and her opening it to welcome her husband home. She would lean against the frame as I approached her, a small smirk on her face, that fake look that said “oh you boys, can’t hold your liquor”.
It was that time of the night when all I thought about was her, looking at me like that. I was always too drunk to understand what her face was really saying, and in the morning I could never remember and was too chicken shit to ask.
It was that time of the night when he would come home to me. I would be thinking about what he just did, and maybe look for any indication so I could finally call him out, but there never was. Tonight, as he walked closer, I took him in. The ruffled hair, his jacket draped over one arm, bloodshot eyes. And his tie. Which was in a completely different knot than the one I did this morning, meaning someone took it off.
Sadly, it was that time of the night when I kept my mouth shut. I let him kiss me, let his arms wrap around me, let him bury his face in my neck and breathe in my perfume.
It was that time of the night when I’d help him into the house, untie his tie that someone else re-did, and hang up his jacket as he crawled into bed. He’d fall asleep almost instantly and I would follow him into bed soon after. As I drifted off and thanked the gods he ended up back with me, I thought about the night when he might not.
But it was that time of the night when, instead of thinking about that, I closed my eyes and waited for that time of the day to come around again.
amandla
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titsay
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