Two Days Twenty-Three
Two days twenty-three. Wearing a loose, gray shirt with various constellations inscribed in a cursive cream. Pink panties and bare, pricked legs outstretched across the King-sized bed. The blanket below my skin is brown and white plaid. The mattress it lays on has a faded yellow hue. It may be time for a new one.
Laptop on my lap, humming with heat. I cover my toes in my husband’s brown Browning blanket. The one I gave him as a Christmas gift two years ago. Rough from many washings. Three pillows at my back, all brown pillowcases.
Why is there so much brown?
A book to my right, on the bed. A Dasani water bottle to my left on the oak nightstand. Light shines through the white blinds of our wide bedroom window.
He isn’t here. I am here.
My mouth tastes foul. Alfredo never leaves a crisp minty freshness. Eyes tired and crusty from a constant back and forth between movie watching and book reading. There appears to be nothing else for me.
My Dasani is seven-eighths drank. Walking to the kitchen sounds strenuous. My mini lions sit outside the door, probably lapping each other. Two fluffy cats I call my babies. Babies that wear thick, green collars.
I cleaned the apartment yesterday. The Windex and AJAX smell must have drifted off in the night. Nothing to smell now but an empty home.
Three bras stacked on top of each other on my dresser. One black, one blue, and one that doesn’t matter. A pile of half-heartedly folded pajama pants to their left. Harley Quinn and BB-8 poke their heads out of the pile.
Even with his blanket I have chilly feet. Small ice cubes attached to my legs by constantly popping ankles.
One of his guitars at every corner of the room. Wonder if he misses them.
Four months left with nothing drastic planned. Time passes as it wants to and forces me to find something to pass it with. His uniforms are stacked on our floor. There’s too many to fit in our six drawers.
A pair of worn blue jeans with a white belt still in the loops say I should head somewhere. Maybe that local café that I have a stamp card to. Buy twenty lattes and get half a latte for free. Very motivational.
My laptop would die if it were unplugged from the wall. It needs constant energy to hum like this. Wish I could find my own energy source. The one that would help me speed through our calendar.
Sometimes I miss college. Deadlines, needy classmates, Professors that half-care. Having vision, most of all. Instead of drive, I have leg freckles and silvery stretch marks that blare from the window light. I own them.
My lips are small and pink. There’s always been a light scar on my upper lip. Maybe the braces in middle school did it.
His head would fall onto my lap, were he here. I just know. I can imagine that after long days in severe heat, that’s where he’d want to be. With eyes on my paleness, kissing at my thick thighs.
There’s a caramel-scented candle on the nightstand. Lit only when no other smell will interfere. Should I light it now? I’m not sure he would like it. He prefers lemon.
I wonder if his boots are broken in. If his sole is handling the places he trains like I am.
Two sweet cards from him up on the dresser. One reads “Incredible Wife” in purple cursive and in another two moose kiss. I can’t read what he wrote me from where I’m planted, but the inside of the card roughly matches the outside. Loving. Sweet. Sensitive. Given to me before they said he had to leave again.
Worried I’ll run out of slow-dripping tears. Worried my legs won’t remember how to thrust me out of bed. Worried the light from outside will go out and I’ll have to turn on a lamp. Worried he’ll stop wearing his dog tags on his hip.
Ready for him to be home.