Second Shift Wife
I exist for him in the in-betweens, the odd moments.
I arrive with beer and tacos, the second shift wife. I look at her shoes as I cross through the door, thinking about the feet that fill those shoes. She left about an hour ago — just enough time to ensure there’s no overlap, that she really is out for the night. I put the food on the table and carry the beer into the kitchen stowing it away in the fridge, just for a short while.
He’s in the bedroom trying to coax a tired, restless infant back to sleep. I find my way around his home. A place where I forever feel like a stranger, an intruder despite its growing familiarity. I find plates and silverware, choosing all of the wrong cabinets. My brain refuses to remember. The bottle opener I find, sitting out on the counter.
I carry the plates to the table and see her name written on a bill. The tidbits of her life with him everywhere. The house is covered in baby stuff. The typical messiness of a harried young couple with a newborn. I don’t belong here, yet here I am. And not for the first time. We are getting bolder. I carefully stash the bottle caps so they aren’t found lingering, a minuscule detail that could give the whole thing away.
The house is quiet save for the noise machine desperately trying to lull the baby back to sleep. It’s hard for me to think of him as a real thing. If he’s real than their life together is real, and then I am a joke. A horrible, terrible joke.
He tiptoes out, hoping that he’s down for the night so that we can share the repast I brought, another secret meal. A cry peals out across the room, echoing through the baby monitor. We might not be lucky tonight. It’s always a gamble.
A few minutes later, he reemerges and comes over to the couch. He smiles his crooked smile at me. A smile of genuine happiness, seemingly devoid of the anxiety I am currently feeling. He kisses me softly on the lips.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, “I’m happy you’re here.”
I nod, unable to speak. I feel my stress bubbling over, spilling out as tears roll down my cheeks.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks pulling me close and hugging me tightly. Letting me cry silently into his shoulder.
“What am I doing here?” I ask. He doesn’t respond right away. I pull back and look at him full on. “What if she comes back early and finds me here?”
“She always texts me before she comes home.”
I swallow hard, and wipe the tears off my face, “I got your shirt wet.”
He smiles kindly, “It’s fine.” A pause, “Do you wish you hadn’t come?”
I shake my head, “I wanted to see you. But I still feel weird being… here.”
“I understand.” He notices the food on the table, “Thanks for bringing all this. I’m really happy you’re here.”
He kisses me again, more deeply this time, and I lean into the embrace. The kiss is like a balm, soothing the fire of my anxiety. Or maybe it’s just a narcotic, numbing me to the pain. Messing with my head, and confusing me about what is up and down, right and wrong. Never before in my life have I known so clearly that what I was doing was wrong and harmful, but been unable to stop myself from moving forward.
He pulls back and gazes at me with such intense love and devotion, I can’t bring myself to look away much less get up and leave like I know I should. But I came in the first place. Leaving now or leaving later, it doesn’t matter. I weighed the options and chose the wrong one.
I know where I stand. I exist for him in the in-betweens. The odd moments not taken up by his real life. The small hours of the morning, when his wife and baby are sleeping. While he is ever present in my mind, I am just one of many thoughts that flicker across his brain throughout the day. We have to cobble together the time spent. Sometimes I feel like a black hole sucking every spare moment he has into my void of desire. I’d feel bad for him if I wasn’t so busy feeling bad for myself, and for her. His wife. The woman he is actually in a Relationship with. The one that’s plastered all over his Facebook. Without her, his Facebook presence wouldn’t exist. She is in every single picture from the beginning of his timeline to the present. Me? What am I? Nothing but a ghost.
And yet, here I am. Invading this life they’ve built together. He puts his arm around me, hugging me closer. He kisses the top of my head. I lean into his comforting warmth, the smell of him penetrating my thoughts.
“Shall we eat?” He asks. I nod, and I know, I’m not going anywhere until I absolutely have to.
