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Jess came back tonight. He was wearing a new jacket when he came
through the door. He opened the closet and hung it up inside. He
didn’t say a word about it. It was a nice coat, too. Made his eyes
look greener. He put down the bag he had over his arm and looked at
me. It was 3:00 a.m. I wanted to be in bed. He said, “Don’t I get a kiss?”
I stood up and went over to him. His cheeks were cold from the outside,
from wherever it was he’d been.
“Did you bring me a present?” I
said. It was the least he could do. He was away over Valentine’s,
after all. But, it's not so bad when he goes away because I have the
house, the bed, the food to myself. I sit in my room and write and
stare out the window and wear pajamas all day and pick my face and don’t
wash my hair and think about other men, other places. When he’s gone,
the house is quiet and it’s good. No one takes money from my wallet,
or squeezes the toothpaste from the wrong end, No one talks in their
sleep, except me, and that doesn’t count.
He looks at me and says, “Did you miss me?” He obviously had fun
wherever he was. He’s smiling, and his face looks soft and handsome.
There were girls with long legs where he was. Girls giving him
drinks-on-the-house and touching him on the wrist, and eyeing his
wedding ring wondering if it was for real or not. He tells me he
doesn’t like women like that, but I don’t particularly believe him.
Everyone likes girls like that, even if it’s just for looking. I didn’t
get dressed up for him tonight. I washed my armpits in the sink. I
checked my teeth in the reflection of the toaster. That’s about it. I
put on a new shirt, but that was hours ago, and now it’s wrinkled and
covered in cat hair. He bows his head down to mine. He smells like
toast and airplanes and man. He smells the same. His hair curls in my
eyes. Nothing is different at home.
He opens his bag and pulls out a snow dome. It says: “NYC” and has a
picture of the Statue of Liberty and the Twin Towers. Neither of us
comment on the presence of the ghost in there. He shakes it and
little bits of fake snow fall through blue liquid. He smiles and hands
it to me. I’ll put it with the others: Detroit, St Paul, Amsterdam.
Fake snow in every city, even Miami. He kisses me again. He says,
“It’s good to be home.” I go upstairs and draw a bath. Our bodies
float through blue liquid and we smell of lavender and shampoo. He puts
my hand on his heart. It’s 4:00 a.m. The stars shine through the window,
and airplanes and helicopters flash by. The city is mostly asleep.
Coyotes bark in the hills below us. My hand is on his heart. It’s
beating. I splash water between his legs. Goosebumps grow along his
thigh. I turn on the water. It’s hot.
And then we roll ourselves dry
in towels and sheets, and afterwards, we fall asleep in each other’s
arms for a little while. We dream about going away and coming home.
The sun rises and, later on, we do too. I go to my room and write. He
goes to his and answers the phone, works the computer, swears
occasionally from his chair and at one o’clock we eat lunch. Salad and
soup and crackers. He tells me, “It’s good to be home.” I never
leave. It is good. We drink tea and watch the birds out the window and
wonder what’s in the mail.
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