Until the Next Time

1

"I haven't had one drink"  he said.  I remained silent.  Anger mixed with a wash of relief.  His eyes were clear, his walk straight and even.2

"I'm not an alcoholic" he said, looking down at his feet. I wanted to  say "You always will be." I expected him to say he could quit anytime.  He didn't.  He wouldn't of course, he hadn't conceded to this slip.3

His shirt was rumpled and smelled like beer.  His jeans and shirt saturated.  Both as stiff in places as if they had been starched.4

He'd been angry when he left.  Didn't say a word.  Just walked out quietly.  Took nothing with him so there was nothing to unpack.  I stood there useless and expectant. I'd be damned if I would ask one question. He walked over to the dresser, removed his keys from his pocket.  Laid his wallet next to the lamp. 5

He unbuttoned his shirt, refused to look at me.  He doesn't when he's angry.  Doesn't when he's hurt.  So many questions I wanted to ask. They crowded my tongue, pushed against the roof of my mouth.  He wasn't open to questions, I could tell.  A man needs his privacy.  A woman needs inclusion.  Seems we were always at this impasse.   Never quite knowing how to work through it. We'd let it lay.  Heavy and encumbering like a blanket in summer.  We'd  back away from it.  Make an exaggerated effort to pretend it was normal for a man to disappear for 3 days.  Normal for him to come home unshaven, and disheveled.  Normal for his wife to pretend it hadn't happened like a hundred times before.6

The next few days we'd walk on egg shells.  We'd turn our shoulders, so as not to touch when we passed in the hall. We'd both stand our ground.  Angry and seperate, we would carry this invisible shield of silence and resentment.  7

He'd find too many projects to work on in his garage.  He'd mow the grass too short.  I'd water the lawn by garden hose.  Lose myself in thought.  Muse in fear while I flooded the hedge and the flower beds.8

I'd envision his escapades, see clearly each woman.  9

He'd bring me an article from the newspaper.  Something he knew would interest me.  I'd cook him liver and onions, his favorite.  The walls would spring  tiny cracks. We'd look each other briefly in the eye when we spoke.  10

We'd undress in the dark. Touch tentatively, both ready for a quick retreat. It would turn passionate.  We'd say I'm sorry the only way we knew how. Deep and slow.   We'd wake in the middle of the night. Work through another apology.  It would take longer, turn feral and wanton.  In the early morning, we'd be needy again.  Using our hands and our mouths to stroke away the hurt.  Instill pleasure in it's place.11

Our lives would take on a semblance of normalcy.  Until the next time.   The next cross word.  The next escape.  The next vigil.12