It’s interesting how some insecurities never change, no matter how long you’ve known someone. Once upon a time I might have wondered if my husband still found me attractive. There were some extreme years consisting of lesbian hair cuts and flourescent socks that only the truly infatuated could have overlooked. But these days I tend to think if he doesn’t feign a cartoon heart bounding out of his chest whenever he sees me then he’s a frikkin’ moron (coz I am awesomely, righteously schmokin’!) I used to twist myself in knots worrying that he thought I was an intellectual retard. Some might say I’m smart in a stupid way(or maybe that’s just a dumb persons way of rationalising the flukey-ness of getting something right now and then) Now I’m pretty sure when God was handing out brains I was off fantasising over Robert Pattinson and narrowly avoided the “Engineering Genius” gene that The Man Of The House clearly overdosed on.

  Now, don’t get me wrong…this is not a Nikki “pity party”, coz if it was I’d be drunk by now and picking a fight with one of you.  All I’m saying is I’ve accepted my human failings and I think the MOTH has too (much as I have accepted his nose blowing escapades in the shower!).  So, this leaves me with an interesting case of “Can’t put my finger on it” insecurity ( CPMFOII – or Compounded Parchment May Flip Over In Italics – which if I’m not mistaken – and I rarely am- is one of the clues from the Da Vinci Code) 

 This newest insecurity manifested when the MOTH ventured hundreds of kilometres north, eventually settling with family (namely his sister and father).  So here’s the thing.  We’ve been apart ALOT.  Not just a bit, not just every now and then…but frequently and often… ALOT ALOT  ALOT!  So this insecurity doesn’t stem from distance…more familiarity.  He’s gone (soon to return) but I feel like I’ve lost him. Like he’s not mine anymore.  He’s theirs!  I hear them laughing in the background of our phone conversations, adding little bits here and there.  I hear a comfort in his voice, like he’s home.  He is their centre.  With him around their disjointed parts feel whole again.  I don’t resent it.   I guess I can understand it.  They accept him and his crap.  Me, on the other hand, well I  have tried to mold that crap into a fairly decent and respectable human form.  A form I could love and bare to live with. 

A primal part of me – the skanky part that wants to pull someone’s hair- wants to scream “That’s my man!”  To grab him and tie him to me with one of those hideous kid leashes.  “Back off world.  You don’t get to reap the benefits of my awesome wifelyness”.

  Instead, the zen Martha Stewart part of me, sighs, understands, and keeps the sadness to herself.  He wouldnt understand, so my heart breaks a little more everyday that he’s away. 

 

 

 

I can feel the weight of his hand on my waist, the heat of his body pressed behind me, radiating.  I open my eyes only to close them again.   Willing him gone, I roll over to face him.  He is still.  Bristly and unshaven, his features smooth and unconcerned, he breaths deeply.  Then he is looking at me.  Eyes of clear blue Mediterranean seas, he is perfection.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask derisively.  He shakes his head, and I can hear the scratching of his hair against the linen of the pillow.  “Just remembering” he says, smiling wryly.  For a long moment we stare at each other, then I say “I hate you.”  He doesn’t blink at this, but I sense a sadness as he stares passed me.  “Just go” I say closing my eyes to him.  At the window the chiffon curtains move and the tiny bells hanging along the hemline tinkle.  “Great” I think, “he plays music when he leaves.”  For a long moment I lie there, the crisp, fresh sheets cool like water against my skin. The bed, anonymous like a motel room, is safe.   Clean sheets, put there by Mother.  She thinks the smell of him will kill me. 

In the absolute vacuum of silence, I hear the doorbell.  The floor is hollow, and I am soundless as I cross the room.  It is Mother, immaculately coiffed.  Dressed entirely in black, she is laden with bags.  In her left hand, on a hanger, a dress of midnight hue.  She peers deep into me, and I look away.  As she places the items down and approaches me, I turn from her, avoiding the hugs and the kisses and the murmurings of nurture.  I sense her shoulders slump, her head low.  “I’ve been trying to call” she says.  I shrug.  “I unplugged the phone.”  She tries again, “How did you sleep?”  At this I look her straight in the eye.  “Like a widow” I spit back at her.  Pain paints across her face. She wants to tell me I’m being a bitch, but she won’t.  As I head towards the bathroom, the phone begins to ring, delighted in its recent reconnection.  “I’m not here” I mumble.

Slatted sunlight streams through wooden blinds, casting an evangelical light.  As I move amongst the masses of floral tributes, the floor thick with blooms, I feel like Dorothy in a field of poppies.  Deceived by an awful trick, I wish I could lay down amongst them and slumber.