DORADO BOOKS

HER The dryer buzzes. “I’m coming,” I mumble under my breath. I’m sitting at my kitchen table. My hand rests on the page of the open notebook laying on my lap. I’m a married woman and I’m writing about another man. There… now I’ve said it. That sounds uglier than it is. Or maybe it sounds exactly as ugly as it is. Maybe I’ve simply gotten good at telling myself that it’s not as bad as it really is. Either way, the dryer buzzes. Again. Because apparently whoever designed this machine decided one notification was not enough. It needs to keep reminding grown-ass ass people that their clothes are waiting for them. I stare toward the laundry room. “Okay,” I mutter. “I heard you.” The television is on in the living room. Not loud enough to be irritating, just loud enough for me to hear exactly what’s making my husband laugh even though it’s something I can’t see. That laugh makes me smile. It always has. I look back down at my notebook. The sentence waiting for me looks worse now. I don’t exactly remember the first time I saw you. I read it twice. Then once more. I don’t know why I wrote it. No. That’s not really the truth. I know exactly why I wrote it. I just don’t know why I wrote that sentence down tonight. There’s been nothing special about today. No anniversary I recalled or song that played on the radio causing me to reminisce. I didn’t have some dream of you last night that’s been driving me crazy from instantly replaying over and over again in my head all day. I worked. Talked way too long on the phone to my sister Sonia. Stopped at the grocery store. Oh, then I forgot the one thing I specifically went there to get. Turned around, went back to grocery store. Got home. Once I finally made it home, because I was running late from my two trips to the grocery store I decided I’d reheat something for dinner… that had definitely tasted a lot better yesterday. After leftovers I folded towels while I talked to my husband about a bill he’d sworn to me last month that he’d already paid. That was fun. It was just another ordinary day. And that is the problem with you. You don’t need a reason. You never needed one. I can be standing in the kitchen holding a bottle of dish soap and suddenly remember the way you used to look at me. Half the bottle of Dawn poured out down the drain before I notice. I can even be enjoying time with my husband. Laughing together. He’ll be telling me something… and then, I’ll get a flash of you. Not a whole memory. Just a flash. Your lips curving into a smile. The feel of your hand holding mine just a little tighter. That little crease beside your right eye. Only a flash… of the way your attention could make me feel like the rest of a room was totally unnecessary. Then it’s gone. And I am back. Which is where I belong anyway, right? The dryer buzzes again. “I said I’m coming.” “You arguing with appliances now?” I close the notebook so fast that the pages slap together. My husband is standing in the kitchen doorway with the remote in his hand. I look at it, then him. “You found it?” He holds it up like evidence in a trial. “Exactly where you said it was.” “Under the blanket?” “Under the blanket.” “Where you left it?” I smile at him. His face lightens. Not much. Just enough. “Now see, that’s where you messed up.” I laugh. “Why?” “You had me. You was doing good. You could’ve just let the story end with you being right.” “I am right.” “Yes, but you don’t know how it got under there.” he says waving the remote and his finger gently at me. “I watched you put it there.” “Allegedly.” “Lord.” He walks over to the refrigerator, opens it, stares inside, then closes it. Nothing has changed in there since dinner. He knows that and I know that. Still, fifteen minutes from now, he’ll probably check again. Marriage teaches you things about a person nobody else would ever have any need to know. How they open cabinets when they’re thinking. What kind of silence means they’re angry and what kind means they’re tired. How they say I’m fine when they’re really irritated. And how they say I’m fine when they are actually fine. Silly little things, like which towel they claim is theirs even though every towel in the house came in the same package. I know my husband. I know him in the deeply unglamorous way you only know somebody after years of building life with one another. He knows me that way too. Which is why his eyes move from me to the notebook. Then back to me. “Whatchu working on?” “Just writing.” “Mmm.” He isn’t suspicious. He’s not a suspicious man. That’s one of the things I love about him. Trust comes naturally to him; in places where I sometimes think it shouldn’t. Not stupidity. Or naïveté. Trust. The kind that says: You belong to me because you choose to, not because I keep asking. I used to think that his kind of trusting was odd. Now I understand what a gift it is. And the gift of it makes my guilt feel heavier sometimes. He leans one shoulder against the doorway. “You all right?” “Yeah.” He watches me. I make a face. “What?” “Nothing.” “You’re looking at me like it’s something.” “I asked if you was all right.” “And I said yeah.” “You did.” “Okay then.” “Okay.” He doesn’t move. I smile despite myself. “You planning to stand there all night?” “Depends.” “On?” “If you gonna tell me what’s actually wrong.” There isn’t accusation in his voice. That’s almost worse. I lower my eyes to the notebook. “Nothing’s wrong.” “You been quiet.” “I’ve been writing.” “Yeah, I know how you get quiet when you write.” “Exactly.” “And I know you get even quieter when you’re thinking about something you don’t feel like talking about.” I look at him. See? That. That is marriage. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking. He only knows me well enough to know that I’m thinking something. It’s kind of irritating at this moment; and I wish, suddenly and fiercely, that he knew me a lot less better than he does. “I’m just in my head.” “That neighborhood dangerous after dark?” I laugh. He grins, pleased with himself. “That was corny.” “It was cute. And it made you smile for a sec.” “Still corny.” He pushes away from the doorway and walks behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders. Warm. Familiar. He bends and kisses the top of my head. It’s such a small thing. An ordinary little thing. And I love him so much in that moment that I could cry. Which makes no damn sense at all. Or maybe it makes perfect sense.