I’ve not left anything in the car, thinking over a list of possible items. Her stomach gurgled; the thought of cooking isn’t appealing though. Stepping out from the sandstone gutter, she raised her eyes a little, the terrace houses all in their row. I never wanted to move into one, remembering the reaction when first house browsing. “I thought I said I didn’t want to move into one of these terrace houses.” He had so many answers that it was hard to maintain an opposition, “Honey, we can move in for two years, sell, and move to a bigger house with a garden, you know the council is really urbanising this area, the property value is only escalating”. He was right; our property value has almost doubled, but that is over ten years now. Jiggling the key in, the door had to be tugged up while turning, the cold always made it stick. Ten years and we’ve never gotten around to fixing the front door, ten years and we’ve still not really gotten on to changing anything.
She removed her shoes and skirt to slip into pyjama pants, the comfy ones with possums on them. Well it is about two hours until he gets home, maybe a snack. She moved lazily up the hall and into the kitchen. “Please hang washing”, a sticky note stuck to the counter. She appreciated his initiative.
Outside the sun stretched low over the sky, pushing the reds, oranges and yellows as a broadcast, winter sunsets are always beautiful, compensation to the sun being petty all day. The washing hasn’t been in the tub too long, it hadn’t gained a stale smell. It would have been more helpful of him to put it on earlier in the day, “my breath would dry these clothes faster then hanging them out here would”. The sarcasm pushed through even without an audience, it was a terrible joke, my sister would have laughed. Her sense of humour is worse then mine; it has been a while since I last experienced it. I hope she is doing well.
Basket, pegs, did I bring anything else out? Closing the backdoor absent-mindedly, flicking the lock down. What to snack on, dates are an appealing thought, if there are some left. Overlooking each shelf twice just to make sure nothing is missed, he must have eaten them then. Defeatedly closing the fridge door, watching the white rubber re-seal before turning away. I don’t feel like really anything else, it would ruin dinner anyway. I’ll be good. I may as well lie down for a bit, feeling the disappointment rise. Hungry and tired, soon to be grumpy too, following the defeated footsteps back to bed.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Her feet just touching the carpet, the bed underneath was comforting, no reason to remain upright, she relaxed her back onto the welcome of the sheets. Her focus now restricted to the ceiling, which was painted white, but in the failing window’s light appeared grey. Her reaction to the eaten fruits had hit deep, irrationally disappointed, a sinking whole that she had identified and dealt with before. Running guidance through her head: ‘you are being unreasonable, no worse, you are being selfish,’ the reality hit with insult. A vain attempt to push down the melancholy, but it sat outside rationality. He will be home soon; making the assumption that a notable amount of time had passed. He will be home soon, and the mood will pass.
She awoke, the sound of the door drawing attention. Light was seeping through the widening crack, the fluorescent lights of the hallway were blinding. The natural light had completely removed itself from the room while she had rested. She propped herself on her elbows anticipating company. Unaccustomed to the change of light, she could only recognise a man’s silhouette in the doorframe. Slowly, her eyes calmed to the light to aid a perception of his face, stretching long, as if gravity hung heavy from his nose and chin, pulling, pinching and bending them back toward the earth. Is it him? She searched the shadow for his eyes; black-framing sockets soon broke from the murk grey face surrounding them, at the core of each sat a small dull red glow. Sparse hairs separated thin pressed lips from the angular face edge. A thin smirk distinguished itself as imbedded winkles that accentuated one corner of his mouth.
Black brows knotted themselves over the nose bridge, where they travelled north to peek at the centre, to the return for a short distance back downward. Above these overgrown bushes, dirty creases mimicked the arch. Further north still two black-brown sharp horns ruptured where lagoons formed out of a receding hairline, a feature she had only recently noticed on John. She hadn’t yet moved, and as the moment passed and her eyes adjusted to the light, the familiar features of his loving face revealed themselves. He was no longer a camouflaged eagle in front of the sun.
There was now enough visible light to identify his warmly features, his sweet mouth turning up acutely in the corners, his softened saltwater eyes, no longer in an abyss of shadow. His quick clumsy movements slowed instantly realising what he had walked in on. She could read pleasure all over his face; he’d just woken her up, he would apologise and come and kiss her forehead in an exchange for causing her disorientation. He thought it terribly cute. “Can I?” he asked holding his hand over the light switch. Sitting up, she squinted in preparation. Click.
She squirmed a little, but through fluttering lids, tired to reciprocate his intense glare. With the sun completely set, the windows became voids, he moved around the room awkwardly to draw their shutters before taking up a seat next to her. She collapsed back into her sleeping position, with her feet just tickling the carpet. “Baby,” she said placing her hands around her stomach while turning her head to face him, “I’m hungry,” her tone imitated a child’s. He replied with an encouraging hum, “you feel like eating anything in particular?” Dwelling on a thought while continually rubbing her belly, “Maybe Vietnamese?”
