Mrs. Finch, January 2014

I was not my husband’s first wife.

It only bothered me sometimes.

Once upon a time, the name ‘Mrs. Finch’ referred to a different woman, one with dirty blonde hair instead of dark brown, one who liked football instead of basketball, one who made better Thanksgiving turkeys and knew how to tie a bowtie and wore lipstick every day. That was years ago, nearly a decade, yet I was painfully reminded on the daily. When a dirty blonde, smooth-legged woman strutted by on the beach, and my loving husband failed to hide the way he tilted his sunglasses down for a better view, I wondered if he was reminded of her. When the basketball game was on and he joked about changing the channel, I wondered if he’d ever made that joke to her. And, of course, every Thanksgiving, when my loving husband’s parents not-so-discreetly commented to each other that they missed his ex’s cooking, I wondered if he felt the same.

I was not my husband’s first time, either.

For this, I was glad.

He’d made that very clear on the night of our wedding, wine-drunk and woozy and possessed by the dull glow of the harvest moon. I’d never seen him so content. Since college I’d loved watching him take a long swig of wine straight from the bottle, admiring the ease with which his hand grasped the glass. We’d been telling each other secrets like two kids in high school, and I’d just talked about how my first boyfriend had a habit of making weird squeaking noises in bed, accompanied by a perfect impression of said noises. He’d laughed and laughed and laughed, rolling around on the beach towel like an eel out of water, almost kicking up sand. “My ex-wife would always cry after! Isn’t that embarrassing?”

He’d cried after, a few hours later. 

I’d wondered, briefly, if he’d been thinking of her.

Things like that didn’t get to me, though, not really. I’d never considered myself a jealous person. Besides, there was a reason they weren’t together—I’d heard his story a million times about how he was better off without her. It wasn’t my business, even if I had heard it so often, to think about so much. Love was ever-changing, and it was very easy to mistake attraction or comfort or excitement for something more grave, longer-lasting. They could have been perfect for each other and I wouldn’t have batted an eye, because a few months ago, Mr. Finch would hover his hand over a Bible, teary-eyed and toothy-grinned, and find a new Mrs. Finch, one that didn’t joke about the scar on his chin or turn the radio up a notch too loud. One that took him kayaking, and rock-climbing, and surprised him with tickets to his most-anticipated football games. 

Of course, he truly was my loving husband. Never before had I met a man who was so quick to drop everything he was doing for the people he cared about. He was hardworking, thoughtful. He furrowed his brow deeply whenever he was thinking, and he’d tap his chin like he were a detective in a black-and-white film. Despite his jokes, he would always watch the basketball game with me, armed with a beer and a Lakers hat, the team I always rooted for. He defended my cooking to his parents, telling them I made the greatest green bean casserole that had ever graced the Earth. And he would come home with flowers, not for any special occasion, just because he’d stopped by the store on the way home from work and noticed that peonies were in season and on our third date ever I’d pointed out how they were my favorite. Though I’d never mentioned it a day after that, he often came home with a bouquet of them, accompanied by a handwritten note, letting me know of something pretty he’d seen that day that reminded him of me. 

Everything reminded him of me, it seemed. 

And everything reminded me of him.

But once, the day after a fight, we were both still mad despite having no real reason to be—naturally, we were taking subtle digs at each other, poking at the tension that had yet to dissolve. The bed was unmade, clothes spilled on the floor from where he’d threatened to move out, beginning to yank random items out of the closet in the hopes that it would get my attention. I’d told him there was still toothpaste on his upper lip in a tone of voice that implied I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it and wiped it off by now. He’d watched me smooth my hair down in the mirror and then said: “Y’know, have you ever tried wearing at least a bit of makeup? My ex-wife wore lipstick every day. Made her look real put-together.”

–

I do not believe in magic, but I do believe in destiny. I do not believe in God, but I do believe that everything happens for a reason. I do not believe in the afterlife, but I do believe that when something is right or wrong for me, the universe will be so kind as to send me a sign.

The universe sends me many.

Last week, I was walking by the bakery that had just opened across the street. I’d yet to try it—not because I didn’t want to, more so because I really didn’t have the money to be buying overpriced baked goods at the moment. Every day on the way to work, the smell of fresh-baked bread and ground coffee would waft out of the bakery, which gave me a new daily exercise of self-control. I’d seen the powdered donuts in the window and for weeks had to stop myself from trying one. Finally, once, as I was passing the door, I glanced down and realized my shoe was untied. If not a sign from the universe to stop in, what was it? And lucky me: the kid behind the counter gave me the donut at half price. 

A few months ago, we’d made plans to get a cat. The apartment was lonely sometimes, and my old friend from college had adopted one but had to move away. I’d messaged him, set up a few meetings, even bought a litter box. And then the day we were driving over to finally bring it home, the glass food bowl we’d bought for it slipped off of the car seat and shattered on the sidewalk. If not a sign from the universe that it was a bad idea, what was it? We didn’t show up to adopt the cat, nor did we browse for another, and later on I was grateful not to be lint–rolling fur off of my pants as I left for work.

In high school, I wanted to be an artist. Despite my lack of artistic prowess, I took lessons and practiced every day for years. My junior year, I’d finally crafted a portfolio that I was proud of. It made use of different mediums, littered with the signature I’d been perfecting my entire life. When I went to apply, though, the folder of pieces was nowhere to be found. I searched my room twice, my car thrice, and the school once. If not a sign from the universe to change careers, what was it? So I closed the application portal for the school of art, opened the one for art history, and never looked back since.

The first time we’d met, my husband had been wearing a jacket, dressed far warmer than the weather called for. It fit him well, broad shoulders filling out a dark brown wool trench coat. I’d loved the buttons on it—they were unique, they looked fancy and old. I made sure to tell him just that, too, brushing his hand as I did so. His face lit up almost immediately and he told me it was his favorite jacket, that he’d worn it for good luck. If not a sign from the universe that we were meant to be together, what was it?

–

I know now that the buttons were attached by the last Mrs. Finch, hand-sewn after popping out the ugly beaded ones the jacket had originally come with. I hadn’t known this until recently, when in our closet I’d accidentally uncovered the remains of her button collection. Red buttons of varying sizes had spilled out of a small tin, clattering softly on the floor. Her name was scribbled in Sharpie on the inside of the cover. On the outside, she’d only written, ‘red.’ I paused for a minute, kneeling on the ground to inspect the contents of the container. They were unique, they looked fancy and old, reminiscent of my first date with my now-husband.

I’d been angry for a split second. The thing that had brought us together, the first time I’d ever seen such a beautiful smile, had been over a hobby of his past lover. Would Mr. Finch have reacted the same way had I not complimented the buttons specifically? Had I said I liked his hair, would we have gone on the second date?

The emotions I hadn’t ever let myself feel came spilling out. Everything was her fault. Maybe my husband’s underperformance in bed was because she’d never satisfied him. When we fought and he reacted to my normal, human emotions the way that a diplomat would respond to a declaration of war, I thought, what could this woman possibly have done to him for him to see every little thing I do as a red flag? Certainly there was no other explanation as to why he could be so set in his own ways other than someone else harming him with hers. If she’d never existed, maybe we’d have met differently, gotten along in better contexts.

After a moment, I was overtaken with a different feeling: gratitude.

Mrs. Finch had brought us together. If she’d never sewn on the buttons, I’d never have had the courage to compliment them. Without such a small act from her, one that stemmed from a simple hobby, we may never have fallen in love. I could see her in my mind’s eye, painstakingly removing the buttons that had come with the jacket, undoing stitches with a gentle snip of the scissor. A needle threading carefully through the material, looping around the holes of the buttons that would eventually catch my eye. Would Mr. Finch have stood out to me at all if the buttons hadn’t been so noticeable? Was there a kindness in him that she helped introduce?

I wished, suddenly, that I could express to her how much I appreciated her.

I wondered if she’d seek out certain kinds of buttons whenever she traveled. I wondered if she’d approach people and ask about it. I wondered how she’d taken up collecting buttons. I wondered if she’d been at a store, one day, and seen a button that struck her fancy, and picked it up with a weird feeling in her chest. If she’d turned it in her painted red fingernails and looked at it even closer, immediately putting it with the rest of her things. Maybe she collected buttons because her mother did, because her mother had always sewn colorful buttons on her clothing as a kid, and when she grew into it she couldn’t help but pick up the hobby that someone she loved had introduced to her.

I wondered what sorts of clothes she wore when she went out shopping. I wondered what sort of car she drove, if she had road rage. Maybe she’d one day been having a bad day and brake-checked the car behind her and nearly gotten into a fender bender. Maybe she’d rolled down her window and apologized right afterwards, fighting back tears because she felt so guilty. I wondered if her favorite football team was the same as my husband’s or if they got into arguments when one won over the other.

I’d never thought about her in such detail before. The long-legged, effortlessly beautiful Mrs. Finch took on a new shape in my mind. She must have had other hobbies, things she could lose herself in the same way she’d take a day once in a while to endlessly scour resale stores for buttons. Perhaps she dyed her hair dirty blonde, carefully streaking bleach onto almond hair, and as she waited for the timer to finish, she’d page through a poetry book, beat another level of Candy Crush, add her favorite tea to the grocery list for the next day, reorganize her jewelry drawer, browse through her closet for something to wear, passing patterned shirts and pencil skirts until she finally landed on her favorite pair of sweatpants and a wine-stained hoodie.

Maybe my husband hadn’t noticed her wearing lipstick every day because it made her sexy, or put-together; maybe it was because she just liked lipstick, because she inherited vintage lipsticks from her grandmother, scanning a selection of red and pink hues every morning, smiling at herself in the mirror to check for stains before leaving for work. I wondered if she had a favorite lipstick color.

Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled out Facebook, typing her name into the search bar. 

In her profile picture, her lips were bare.

–

Mr. Finch

Wheat bread. Bell peppers. Tortilla chips. Baking soda. Brown sugar. Soy sauce. Face wash. Toilet paper. 

A sugar scrub, matte red lipstick, and flowers.

Keeping the first half of the list in mind, I worked quickly through the aisles of the store, with the inattentive glances of someone who truly paid no mind to the quality of the products they were picking up. I’d never kicked the habit of simply buying the cheapest item on the shelf, even though I was, at this point in time, far from the broke college student I’d been before. One day, I always told myself, I’d try out the most expensive soaps, the highest-quality toilet paper. Years later, I couldn’t yet bring myself to splurge on something that cost a dollar or two more than what was on sale.  

As soon as I’d thrown a face wash into my basket, though, I brushed past the row of sugar scrubs with slight hesitation. What sort of boyfriend would I be if I just grabbed the cheapest sugar scrub? More importantly, would the cheapest one even work properly on her skin? It probably smelled terrible in comparison to the higher-priced ones, didn’t it? Had I seen a sugar scrub in her shower before? What kind was it, and did she have a favorite? 

Whether I’d spent ten minutes or an hour staring at a wall of body wash was now a mystery to me. I moved on to the makeup section, which certainly wasn’t any easier. Similar questions came over me as I browsed the lipstick—what kind did she like, again? How many shades of red could there possibly be? What was the difference between liquid and solid lipstick? What if she wanted to try something different? What if she were tired of the red? I wasn’t, but maybe she’d been thinking about switching to a light pink, or even brown. 

Was it appropriate to gift her something familiar, things I knew she used on a daily basis, or should I have branched out and gotten something new on multiple fronts? Once I let myself think about it, let myself relive the first walk through her apartment, the first shower I’d taken at her place, I realized the brands and scents and colors came easily to me. She always mentioned how she loved the smell of peaches, and how she loved a brown lip on other people though  she didn’t think it suited her sense of fashion. Would it excite her enough if I got her the peach scrub, the red lipstick she’d always used? 

The thought of a strained smile on her face, unblinking eyes feigning excitement as she accepted something she didn’t want, sent chills down my spine. I hadn’t always thought so hard about my gifts for others—I’d even had a good amount of pride regarding my gift-giving skills, my ability to stumble upon things that I knew my friends and family would appreciate and use daily. Now I was uncharacteristically nervous, scared that somehow my choice in gift would represent an idea in our relationship that I didn’t want to follow. I didn’t want to come off as boring, or pushy, or inattentive. 

She did love that sugar scrub, though. Her skin, always so soft, always smelled like peaches, like she’d match the scents of her soaps and lotions to really lock it in.

And she looked beautiful with that lipstick on.

Whenever she kissed me goodbye, I couldn’t help looking at myself in the mirror afterwards, at the vague red print her lips had left behind, light and gentle, like waking up after a dream. She’d kiss my forehead, then my lips, a two-step I’d grown used to even in our short time together, one I’m unsure I could go too long without.

With just as much familiarity, but much more intention, I took the items off the shelves, placing them gently amongst my things in the basket.

–

Mrs. Finch, November 2012

I’d been planning to divorce my husband for months now.

Upon reflection, I wasn’t sure this was how happy marriages were supposed to operate.

On paper, we were perfectly compatible. I loved him as loudly and clearly as I could; though I wasn’t exactly a romantic, or a wordsmith, or an idealist, I couldn’t possibly make it less obvious how overwhelming my love for him was. And he did the same—though, as they say, opposites attract, he displayed his love for me with love songs and kind gestures, a well-timed word or framed photo. We’d been in love for months, then years, intertwining more closely over time.

–

Our love story went as follows:

Right after college, I’d moved from the small rural town I’d always wanted to escape to the big, bustling city a few states over. I wasn’t exactly sure how to make friends, so I jumped at the chance to go when my coworker invited me out to a dinner party. Upon my arrival, I realized that I’d overdressed, just a little.  Though enough to be devastatingly embarrassing, it was enough to make me just a tad more self-conscious than I already had been, tugging awkwardly at the antique buttons I’d sewn onto my favorite skirt. I was facing some kind of culture shock as it dawned on me that  I’d completely missed the unwritten memo—everyone around me was wearing some variation of the half-tucked graphic tee, dark-wash skinny jeans outfit that I was now realizing everyone around this part of town wore like a uniform at any minute past 9 pm. Even my coworker, whose outfits and demeanor I’d always paid close attention to and who I knew full well wouldn’t touch denim if it was shoved in her face, was clad in a pair of dark blue khaki pants and a black button-up draped effortlessly over a lacy tank top, makeupless save for a shade of burgundy lipstick I’d never seen on her lips until now.

Awkwardly, I swiped at the eyeliner I’d so meticulously applied. I ran my tongue over my bare lips. This clearly wasn’t a skirt party.

I can still attest to it, vividly—the skirt I was wearing at the non-skirt party took over my brain, infecting me like a fungus. I was tugging at it all night, attributing my discomfort to the nature of the skirt instead of the nature of the party, or even to my own nature, which in hindsight was the real problem. The disease of my ill-fitting outfit took over my brain and distorted every conversation I had: perhaps not to the perspective of everyone else, but certainly to my own. No matter who I met, I walked away from the meeting thinking, They hated me. They know I don’t belong here. I totally butchered that conversation. They had to be looking at my stupid skirt.

And then, right as I was about to leave, to call a cab home and rip the skirt off of my legs, lay in bed where I clearly belonged, Mr. Finch approached, all sideways-smiles and tousled hair. 

“I like your skirt,” he’d said, and the rest was history.

We’d gone on our first date the morning after, and I can barely recall the days I’ve spent without him since. That first month we’d known each other, I remember I’d just kept wanting more, wondering when I’d see him again even when we were still in the same room, conversing lightly over a bowl of ramen or sitting in silence, typing frantically on our laptops. We were in the same masters program, though he’d wanted to become a professor and I’d wanted to become an archaeologist, and we exchanged observations about the field over twice-brewed mugs of black coffee, each of us covering the bases that the other hadn’t even begun to think of. 

He wrote me love letters, one for each month we were dating and then extras whenever I would cross his mind. I would bring him lunch every day when he was on break from teaching, and I’d revel in the smiles his students shot me knowing that they thought of me as their teacher’s girlfriend. And after we’d moved in together, I was always excited to come home to him at the end of the day, to stand in front of the microwave with him waiting for the feast I’d bought at the corner store an hour prior. 

I hated football, but when he’d taken me to my first football game, tightly holding my hand as we navigated carefully through the stands to the seat he’d been eyeing, when he’d excitedly explained the longstanding rivalry between states and grinned at me after every touchdown, I’d bought the tickets to the following game, and we’d traded off for every game after. 

He wasn’t a huge fan of makeup, but when my coworker recommended a shade of lipstick that she swore up and down would suit me better than anything, he’d come with me to the store to pick it out and try it on. He’d been the one to take my face in his hands, look at me with wide eyes, and say, “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.”

I’ve worn the lipstick every day since.

And the buttons! The reason, he’d told me eventually, that he liked my skirt so much was because of the unique buttons I’d sewn on it, which I’d quickly replied with the fact that I’d been getting into collecting vintage buttons, though I wasn’t sure exactly where I’d find ones as pretty as the ones I’d attached to the skirt the mere morning of. He’d beamed and taken me to his favorite thrift shop the day after, sifting through trinkets until he’d found a bright green button that I ended up falling in love with.

–

We’d gotten into the habit of fake-proposing at restaurants. It started when we’d both been running low on funds, though soon enough it was a monthly ordeal. Usually he was the one who’d do it, clinking his spoon on his glass, giving a short speech—they were always elaborate enough to be believable, and never enough for me to doubt their genuinity. He’d throw in these little inside jokes that I wouldn’t even have remembered until he mentioned them with the most adorable wink, and I’d giggle, blushing before he got on one knee.

No one in my town, or any of the towns over, for that matter, seemed to know this: oftentimes the restaurant, along with the free cake for proposing, will let you take the rest of the dessert home. 

Our similarities shined in how the both of us reveled in the attention and the slices of free cake. The true beauty of it, however, was in the extra slices we’d share once we slipped back into our shared apartment. We’d feed each other, taking bites off of the held-out fork like high schoolers at prom. Every month, we’d have a new flavor, reviewing it intensely as some dumb sitcom played in the background.

And then, the day I’d decided maybe I wanted to turn the tables, flip the gender roles, and get on my knee to whip out a fake ring, he’d beat me to it. 

To my surprise, the ring had been real, and the speech had been longer than any other. 

“I mean it, completely,” he’d said. “Will you marry me?”

–

We had a small marriage.

I’d sewn one of my buttons on his jacket, and at the reception, we’d worn what we had on the first day we met.

That night, he told me he’d always loved the skirt. It had made me stand out to him, even more than I already had.

Years later, he no longer liked my sense of fashion, or at least he didn’t make it as clear as he’d had upon our fairytale first meeting. What had once been riveting back-and-forth conversations about any given topic would eventually escalate into awkwardly flat almost-arguments. 

I wondered often if I had just been idolizing him, viewing our relationship through rose-colored lenses. I loved his gestures, and he would shower me with compliments and near-weekly bouquets of flowers. As they continued, though, it would sometimes feel  like he was only compensating for the stagnance. With him, it was excitement or nothing. And with me, it was consistency or nothing—though I felt like maybe my constant care for him wasn’t exactly getting through to him, either.

At some point, we stopped living intertwined and started simply living parallel. The arguments felt less like emotional explosions and more like a way to entertain ourselves. 

And we always made these foolish digs at each other, almost daily. Like we were making small, insulting comments to make up for the overarching issue.

“Have you ever considered,” he’d mentioned offhandedly one evening, “that maybe you’re overdoing it, wearing that lipstick every day? It’s nice and all, but it has to be so much effort to wear it all the time.”

–

I sometimes envy superstitious people. I’ve never believed in God, or magic, or anything of the sort, and I’ve always found it foolish to attribute random events to fate and destiny. To me, the idea of a universal higher power is impossible to conceive when things are so clearly explained by chance or careful orchestration. Nothing could have strung my husband and I together—the heavens above couldn’t have come up with the timeline of our relationship, the ups and downs that shaped us as individuals. 

The flowers he’d bought me on our first dinner date, purple carnations jumbled with daisies and daffodils, hadn’t been some sign from the universe that we were meant to be. He couldn’t possibly have known that carnations were my favorite, or that I was allergic to roses. Maybe the flowers were on sale, or he’d just thought they were the prettiest.  Even if it had to have been a coincidence, it didn’t retract from the sentimentality of the statement.

The pile of red buttons on my desk, meticulously removed from his favorite maroon button-up, hadn’t been some sign from the universe that our breakup was imminent, either. He needed to wear it to an important business meeting, and they, of course, could be perceived as unprofessional. He couldn’t possibly have been trying to make a huge statement about the downfall of our relationship. In the same way I’d still been flattered beyond belief by the flowers, it didn’t retract from the slight hurt I felt seeing them tossed aside. 

How blissful would it be, though, to see all of these little things and ascribe them to something that was out of my control? To navigate life like there was an invisible force bringing us together and tearing us apart instead of knowing that it was all circumstantial?

I loved him more than anything, but I couldn’t bear the air in the room when we were together, even when I was curled up in his arms on the couch. Even when his arm was around me at an outing with our friends. Even when we were holding hands at the movies, looking to all the world like the perfect couple.

If I had it my way, I’d snap my fingers and make it better. 

I couldn’t have it my way, obviously, so I first saw a therapist, and then a friend, and then a divorce attorney.

Occasionally, I could convince myself that he was thinking the same thing. Once in a while he’d let go of my hand in public, or leave early for work before we could even say good morning, and it felt so pointed that I couldn’t help but think he’d also toyed with the idea of not being with me. He always seemed to be thinking about something, a far-off, pondering look on his face, one that I’d seldom seen when we’d first met. The peace I’d seen behind his eyes so often was rare, now.

–

I’d tried countless times to propose the idea to him. I’d carefully steer conversations to the state of our marriage, and the words would appear at the forefront of my mind during every argument. I’d practiced with my mother, with my lawyer, with my sister and brother and cousin and best friend. 

I finally decided when I’d do it—we were lying in bed one night, perfectly normal. We weren’t talking, as per usual. I can’t remember the last time we’d had the type of late-night conversation I’d used to cherish so much, and when I’d tried to bring up how I missed it, we’d soon dismissed it as an issue of time management.

So I’d been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, as I laid on his chest. I’d always, always loved to nestle my head in the crook of his shoulder. I’d do it tomorrow, I decided. I’d tell him everything.

He turned over in his sleep suddenly, his face so close to mine it would have been uncomfortable otherwise. And in a movement that I hadn’t recalled since months after we’d started seeing each other, he ran his fingers through my hair, pulling me closer to plant a kiss on my forehead.

In the dim light of the moon, reflected off of the mirror, I could see only the outline of his face. I traced a finger down his jaw, down to the scar on his chin that I so appreciated because he’d gotten it as a child, hitting his head on the corner of the pool. 

I was almost seeing him like it was the first time again. 

He opened his eyes, blinking at me for a moment. 

His gaze was so peaceful.

Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe we’d just fallen into routine, too distracted by ourselves to realize what was ours. Maybe we weren’t parallel, so confined by the rules of logistics that we’d never intertwine again. Maybe we were just people, and we could just sleep together, and tomorrow I’d buy him tickets to another football game and we’d whoop and cheer and he’d go right back to wearing my buttons to work, he’d sew them back on to his favorite jacket.

Maybe I was seeing us through the lens of someone who was already doomed, and I just needed a sliver of hope, a dash of the scar on his jaw, a glint in his eye, to realize what I was missing all along.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Maybe, once again, he was everything.

–

Our love story ended as follows:

I woke up the next morning, sunlight spilling through the window. I could see him in all his glory, now. Even the individual hairs on his head were clear as day, casting subtle shadows on his spotless skin. He shifted in his sleep, turning away. Inadvertently, my thoughts drifted to how we used to fall asleep holding hands, arms and legs intertwined, like we couldn’t stand to be even an inch apart. 

I planted a kiss on his forehead, nervously returning last night’s favor. His eyes slowly opened, confused and slow,  first adjusting to the light and then the sight of me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, briefly averting his gaze to glance at the clock. He met my eyes, all semblance of peace gone. “Mind if I take a rain check on our date tonight? I have some work to catch up on.”

My smile faltered, and quickly, I adjusted it, giving him my gentlest and most understanding nod. 

I handed him the divorce papers at breakfast.

–

Mr. Finch

The rhythm of my arrival coaxed me into almost a dreamlike state: first the light thunk of the car door closing, then my even footsteps up the stairs, the clicking of the key turning the pins of the lock, and finally, the way I shuffled my feet on the welcome mat to rid my shoes of dirt as I entered the house. I’d gotten into the habit of coming home early from work on her days off, and I looked around, excited to surprise her not with a gesture but simply with my company. 

The house was quiet, and I trailed through the hall with an equally quiet curiosity. Clues of her presence were left all over. Her hoodie was draped on the couch, the TV remote crooked on the armrest. An empty mug was on the bedside table, streaks of tea on the outer edge, and next to it was a bottle of red nail polish, newly bought. As I walked, I couldn’t stop myself from tidying up, folding up the hoodie, putting away the remote and the nail polish, and picking up the mug to bring to the dishwasher.

There was music coming from the kitchen, jazzy guitar instrumentals from the band I knew she loved even though neither of us could pronounce their name. As it dawned on me that she was here, that I was about to see her, a familiar eagerness effloresced in me, one that had repeated almost daily since the day we met.

Past, present, and future all fell into place as I peered around the kitchen doorway, catching her eye just as she finished up watering the houseplants. In a way I hadn’t seen in a while, her eyes brightened, smile widening as she straightened to greet me.

I wondered what she’d been up to while I was gone, how her day had been. And as she approached, arms outstretched, my trance was happily broken, like a fluorescent glow turning into a flash of light. 

Away went my thoughts—I was home.