Suburban Vex Life

She had been with him for years. It was almost impossible for her to conjure up the image in her mind of him from the days when they first met. Now, he was older, and lines of monotony streaked his forehead. His hair was thinner, and his belt, slightly tighter. He sighed a lot more, and frequently could be found staring through dead blue eyes at the television. There were times when she would stand in the corner, unbeknownst to him, studying. She vaguely remembered the feelings he gave her when he first began reciting her name. She had some recollection of the first time she saw his smile, and how she felt the first time he touched her skin. So long ago. What sort of cruel twist was it that the one person who once could excite you and make your pulse race, would become merely the roommate and financial partner? Where did it all go? The breathless, heated arousal that could be turned on simply by his lips on your throat? The mystifying hot love had evolved into teamwork. Drab grey and white underwear were all you’d now find in her small drawer, next to her childhood bible and discarded costume jewellery. Satin finery merely a memory, and likely now too small to glove her frame. What alarmed her the most, was the knowledge that her most intimate acquaintance with his underwear came on Thursdays, when she did the laundry. Even more disarming, was the reality that this did not seem to be a problem for him.

How delicious it was when they began. His hands were always on her, caressing, rubbing, grabbing, and she had loved it. She missed his hands, the way they felt when they touched her, stroked her hair, traced shapes on her back. She missed all of him. He had taught her how to absorb pleasure, to accept it, and how to expect it. Her education on matters of the sheets previously had come from friends, who used their imaginations, rather than experiences to answer questions. Her parents taught her that it was simply wrong, that only girls of thin moral fibre would crave carnal pleasure . It was not unlike the teachings of any peer, as it seemed they’d all been schooled the same way. She felt shame at the feelings she had when she read the magazines detailing the romping of others, feelings that were all too wonderful to be believed. After years of study sessions with teenage boyfriends that consisted of stretched sweaters and sore lips, she wanted to feel more. She wanted to feel what the poetry had been written about. She wanted to ease her throbbing.

She met him at a party. She was in her black phase, everything black. She listened to The Cure, The Cult, Gene Loves Jezebel, while all her friends listened to fluffy, sugary pop. Disenchanted, she liked to think of herself as more interesting, seldom stopping to think that maybe she was trying too hard to be different. On that summer night, while everyone drank their beer, and did the tequila shots, she was prepared for an early exit, wanting to lull herself to sleep by scanning her ceiling and listening to low music. Sighing in the corner, feeling small, she thought she glimpsed something wonderful. Black leather and combat boots. Then she saw a smile. Laughing eyes, and lustrous long dark hair. Immediately, things seemed to stand still and quiet. He saw her too, and unabashedly stared back. When he glided across the room, he seemed to be drifting amongst the sea of pastels and pearls. When he introduced himself, she knew she had been introduced to her future. If not for the beauty of this moment, and the fact that it was about her, she’d have laughed at the syrupy sweet sentimentality.

They began with the traditional phone calls, the late night marathon laughing, shared their dreams, and desperately tried to find ways to include each other into plans already made. It didn’t seem like something that wouldn’t last, it was different, at least to them. Kissing became their second tongue, something they seemed to do for hours, without even thinking that the world still went on. As things began to progress, the excitement became precious torture to them both. The soft touch on her skin, the parts of her that seemed foreign, seemed to take away every ‘no’ she knew. It wasn’t long before that word evaporated completely. Her favourite thing became lying with him, near the water’s edge, undressed, on an old fleece blanket. She never once wondered if he’d rather be doing something else. They both knew that this was their own utopia, that one day, this would be the stuff of happiest memories.

They went to the same school, suffered brief separations after typical squabbles, only to reunite again and again, when they realized what they were on the edge of losing. They became professionals, hair cut to an acceptable length, battling stress and fatigue, complaining about the choices they’d made, getting up when the sun did, and going to sleep long after it had set. Their families became one, all holidays spent together, all developments, joyful or filled with sorrow, a community sponsored event. And the heat simmered on.

One day, she woke up, and they were married. In the next room, she heard a baby squealing. Theirs. The walls were beige. The coffee was brewing. Chicken was thawing. The dog was begging to be let out. Her car was a station wagon. He drove the van. The carpet needed vacuuming, and the garbage needed to go out. The water was tepid.

Now, as she stood in the doorway watching him languish catatonic, not responding to the canned laughter that belched from the television, she struggled to remember what it felt like back then. Despite the years and it’s slow, cold, ravaging, she could still see him in his leather. Did he still see the girl in black?

Natural ebb and flow, that’s what people called it when passion cooled. She wanted to accept that, but found she couldn’t. There were nights under that goose down duvet, with nothing but the gentle subtle tick of the clock, where she lay awake, bubbling with frustration, unable to sleep, fearful that she would lose the ability to cope. She would get under the covers, wearing her jersey shorts and loose t-shirt, hoping for a warm soft hand to find it’s way through the darkness to her body.
Even with the opaque night cloaking the frigid room, she lay in hopeful wait of spontaneous eroticism. Only when the soft, gentle rhythmic murmurs drifted toward her ear, did she know that her wait was in vain. Dressing in anything sheer or lacy was out of the question. A little like dressing up for the prom and being stood up. Repeatedly.

She would often stare at the ceiling, considering her own physical decay. Softer belly, that was true. Marked by those scars of womanhood. She found some grey not long ago, clustered around the frame of her face. Fair haired, it was difficult to see, but she knew it was there, and realized he could see it too. The skin was rougher, she scarcely wished to touch it herself. Seemed unfair that when she had the butter cream skin, it was also marred by the occasional blemish. The most ragged thing was her disposition. More often than she’d care to admit, she would be wearing a grimace on her face. It wasn’t intentional, but she knew it was there. When she took the time to think hard about the state of things, she knew she had to consider that maybe he didn’t think of her as a sexual person. She was his wife, the mother, the cook, the maid, the laundry lady. She was not , she decided, his desire. On those nights, tucked safely in their bed, when she wanted to pummel her pillow out of frustration, she thought she’d gladly trade every title, just to be the lover.

Leaning down to open the oven door, the scent of lemon chicken wafting through the air, she would turn to find him standing behind her, crooked, devilish smile on his face. He would not care that it was daylight. She would not think about the floor not being clean. He would come at her. She would half heartedly fight back. He would rip at her clothes. She wouldn’t think about how she loved the blouse, or how the pants fit so well. He would cover her mouth with his. She would feel his hands exploring frenetically. Arms back, arched back, fantastical movements. Him. His scent. His guttural exclamations. His mouth savouring her, parts of her untouched for so long. Sweet sweat. Eyes open. Eyes locked. Rhythm. Explosions. Woman.

Back. Here again, staring at him, unbeknownst. Mildly breathless from the pictures she painted. So close to approaching him, giddy at the notion that he may actually want her to. She takes a quiet step into the room. A tiptoe. Holding her breath. This is delicious fun. Another tiny step. Heart racing. Suddenly, the leather couch crunches, and he moves slightly. His hand on the remote, fingering buttons, tracing them. She says nothing, watching. A voyeur. Slowly, he looks up. Sees her, stops her. A vacant face has he, until it appears a thought has occurred to him. He simply asks, “Is it Thursday today?”

She feels like she has been drenched in cold water. Her heart has sunk, and she is left feeling foolish. She is feeling invisible, even though he is speaking to her. Her youth and vitality seemed to evaporate completely with his question, like drops of water on a hot pan.

“Yes, it’s Thursday”, she says calmly.

“Hmm, I thought so…”, he trails off, and his eyes dart back to the television.

She looks at him for a moment, wondering if it is over. The conversation. Her ambitions. Her passion. With a sigh he is oblivious to, she retreats with a single tear in her eye, and a tight throat. Padding softly up the stairs, she stifles her cries. It’s Thursday. She has laundry to do.