 |
She
was no one’s ingénue. The way things had started
were no longer how they were. She’d just stepped off the
bus; it was raining again. It seems the clouds always roll in
when she’s returning from seeing him. The storms follows
her the instant she steps out his door. In the beginning things
sparkled, the way they always do with the hope of someone new,
but now a soap scum lined shower curtain style of vision had
turned everything hazy. She was losing herself more and more
when she saw him. He was her weakness and she, well she really
didn’t know what she was to him. Maybe she was a craving
for him. Something he only wanted once in a while now. She couldn’t
even control when and if she saw him.
As the bus pulled away she lashed her overcoat around her, while
she could have cared less about her now messed up hair, that
was his doing, she did try to raise her umbrella. The damn thing
never worked when she needed it. There she went, someone who
could be called pretty on a good day, but today she had mascara
running down her face, wet hair matted to her scalp and the
tears had started. No one would be giving her a second look.
She shoved the umbrella into the trash just before she crossed
the street.
What was she doing here, in high heels, her favourite skirt,
devoid of underwear as was his request, why did she do this
for him? She didn’t love him, he didn’t love her.
It was going no where, yet she seemed powerless to fight off
his requests. She was starting to sob, she prayed she could
keep it under control until she reached the confines of her
bathroom. She kept swearing that this was the last time, but
she swore this to herself, never uttering goodbye to him.
Up the front stairs to her apartment she ran, avoiding eye contact
with the doorman. She jammed her key into her door then slammed
it shut behind her. Off went the heels, the jacket, the skirt,
the bra, leading a trail to the bathroom. She climbed in the
tub naked, turned on the water as hot as she could stand it.
She was going to scrub him off her as quickly as she could.
As the water raised around she could feel herself enveloped
by the warmth of the water, she let herself go and slowly came
undone. Her sobbing turning to dry heavings in her chest. She
scrubbed until she her skin glowed bright red, until her own
hands had covered ever inch of her skin that he had touched.
Gone for the moment were the sensory feelings of his fingers.
They would return to haunt her tomorrow, but for tonight she
would put on a brave face and forget about where she’s
just been and what she done.
The water was getting cold, the clock above the sink told her
she was going to have to hurry. Before she could climb out of
the tub he walked in. In her scrubbing fit she must not have
heard him come home. The man whose ring matched hers, the man
she loved. Odd how this man who should know her better than
anyone else on earth couldn’t see what was in her eyes.
He would never question the trail of clothing leading to the
bathroom, to him it would be a trail leading him to her and
not indicative of her escapism.
He smiled at her and slowly circled the tub looking down at
her, he stopped at her head, leaned over and kissed her on the
forehead. This is what had happened to them, something comfortable
and easy. She knew the routine from here. He would help her
out of the tub and wrap a towel around her. Then kiss her again,
this time on the lips and off she would go to get dress for
dinner and drinks with him and his clients du jour. The perfect
wife.
|
Michelle
Foster, February 2003
|
|