I had left the war behind or thought I had anyway. Loud noises – a car backfiring, a shattering glass – would drop me to the floor searching for cover. Of course, at home in the relative safety of my studio apartment in center city, this was unnecessary. But in Iraq it sometimes meant the difference between life and death. The first few times this happened in public, I tried to laugh it off and let it roll off my shoulders. After a while, though, it became too much. It wasn't funny. I couldn't let it slide. I went out less and less until I finally stopped going out.
Luckily, in the 21st century we have luxuries. It became too easy for me to stay home. I could pay all my bills online. Have my groceries delivered. Workout for free with videos on YouTube. Anything I wanted to read could be downloaded instantly to my Kindle. I didn't even need to see friends in the flesh. There was Skype and Facetime.
My one companion, the only one to give me the space I needed, was Birdie. Birdie was a fat male calico, one of only two male calicos his vet had seen in some 20 years of practice. He spent his days lounging in the sun or staring down the pigeons out the fire escape window. At nights, if I happened to fall asleep on the couch watching Netflix, he would curl up at my feet. He had the amazing sensibility to know when he needed to be near me and when I needed to be alone. I loved him all the more for it.
It was late morning, following another night spent on the couch that I awoke to the harsh buzzing of my call box. Someone was downstairs demanding to be let in. I waited to see if they would give up, but after 10 minutes of continuous buzzing I finally pulled myself off the couch to see who it was and what they could possibly want at 1030 in the morning on a Tuesday.
"Yes." I said, trying to sound neither angered nor eager.
"It's me – let me up."
I could feel the color drain from my face, and a sick feeling descend through me that settled in my bowels. For one awful moment I thought I might vomit. I buzzed him in. I waited anxiously, counting to sixty over and over until I could hear his footsteps in the hall. I was certain my heart was going to burst. There was a loud series of 3 wraps on the steel door that made me jump and my ears rings. My breath stalled in my throat.
A moment ticked by and then another and another, until finally he said: "Claire."
Tears pricked my eyes at the sound my name. The pain in his voice was life a knife to the heart. He was hurting just as badly as I was. He needed me, but I wasn't so sure I needed him. I forced myself to inhale and exhale slowly then took a step forward and opened the door.
"Frank." I exhaled. My voice sounded far away and was so quiet I wasn't sure if I had spoken aloud. Frank stood still as we both took in the sight of each other for the first time in four months. He was tall, standing at 6'1'' which I had been grateful for when we starting dating because I could still wear heels. We had spent much of our nine years of marriage apart. Him, on assignment in London and me, stationed first, in Germany and then in Iraq.
It felt as though we were seeing each other, truly and clearly, seeing each other for the first time. He had aged. Gray hair was beginning to replace his natural brown along the temples. Lines formed a deep furrow between his brows and across his forehead. He looked tired. I wondered how I appeared to him. Had I aged? There wasn't any question that I looked tired.
"May I come in?"
I stood back from the door and he stepped through the threshold. He had brought coffee and breakfast with him.
"Thought you might be hungry."
I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping to suppress the annoyance I felt at having him divine my thoughts from a single glance at my face. Frank placed the coffee and grease stained brown paper bag on the table. I watched him as he moved with ease. As if he belonged there. In truth, he did. But four months ago as our struggles intensified, he had moved out.
He shrugged his leather jacket from his shoulders, and placed on it on the back of the nearest chair. He took 2 plates the cabinet and returned to the table.
"Still take your coffee black, I presume?"
I smiled as the hot coffee slid down my throat and shook my head.
"And your favorite is still the bacon, egg, and cheese add avocado from the bagel place?" He unwrapped the sandwich and placed it on the plate. His face fell when he handed me the plate.
"What's wrong?"
"I gave up meat." I said, doing my best to look crestfallen. My resolve only lasted another moment before my face split into a smile, "I'm kidding, Frank! I could never give up bacon."
His face relaxed and his shoulders sagged in relief. "Well, good – then here you go, my darling."
We ate in relative silence. I asked if his breakfast was to his liking. Yes, he said. And yours? He enquired. It's perfect, thank you. I replied. It was more than perfect. It was the first real meal I had eaten in nearly two days. It was delicious. I finished my coffee, and got up to make more – this wasn't merely a social visit. My husband had come to talk.
"Claire," he said as I portioned out the black grinds into the coffee maker.
After a hearty meal, I felt more kindly towards Frank than I had when he initially showed up. "Yes?"
"You know why I'm here?"
I switched the coffee maker on, and it began to rumble as the water heated. "Yes." I whispered. Silence fell between us once more, and I rushed to the cupboard over the refrigerator where I –we– kept the alcohol. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, Irish coffee it was.
"Claire, it's eleven-thirty in the morning."
I didn't respond. The coffee was taking forever to brew. Too impatient to actually make an Irish coffee, I unscrewed the cap from the bottle and took a deep drink from it. Frank remained silent, but I could feel a mixture of anger and hurt rolling off of him even from 10 feet away. Before I could even register it, Frank was in front of me. His intense gaze glaring down at me. I stared right back. Without a word he took the bottle from my hand, and swallowed 3 long and deep pulls of the whiskey.
"Mr. Randall, it's eleven-thirty in the morning."
"I don't care." His voice was deep with a calm anger that was simultaneously frightening and erotic. His brown eyes bore into mine, and just as I was beginning to grasp the depth of his pain, his lips crushed mine. So hard, there would be bruising by the next morning, if not sooner.
My body reacted, and I kissed him back. I matched his intensity, breath for breath. His hands were cool on my whiskey-flushed face. The cotton of his shirt was rough from being improperly starched. Frank had either attempted to launder his own shirts or was overpaying for his dry cleaning.
I stifled a laugh as I finally got the last button undone.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing, it's just your shirt is over starched."
"Oh, is it? I wasn't sure of how much to use."
"It doesn't matter." I said. Frank had pulled the shirt off and I tugged his trousers from his hips. The whiskey had taken affect, and losing my balance, I fell to my knees in front of Frank. His boxers were black with grey elastic banding at the waist. I wiggled the jeans down to his ankles, and then began to unlace his boots. They smelled of leather and shoe polish. The toes were scuffed from years of use. Frank hated to throw anything away, and would wear things until they fell off him if it weren't for me.
Having drunk considerably more whiskey than me, Frank used the counter to support himself as he removed his boots. Frank leaned down to kiss me, the whiskey on his breath mixing with the scent of the brewed coffee.
"You are wearing entirely too much clothing, my dear."
I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I hadn't showered in the previous two days or changed my clothes. I sagged down onto the floor, my knees bent underneath me. I swallowed a lump that had swelled up in my throat, forcing the tears back down their ducts. I would not cry, damn it!
Frank's face softened, and he lowered himself to the floor before me. I bit my lip and tried to smile to let him know I was okay, the resulting bizarre look would have made him laugh if it hadn't broken his heart. His eyes welled with tears before he swallowed them back down as well. Neither of us would cry. We both wanted to be strong for the other.
He gathered me into his arms and embraced me tightly, the weight of his arm around my shoulders, a comfort. We sat silently for some time, listening to the ticking of the clock above the television. Neither of us cried but trembled with all that hadn't been and needed to be said. There was sudden loud crash as glass shattered followed by a shrieking meow let out by Birdie.
"Jesus Christ!" my heart slammed against my ribs and I shot up out of Frank's arms. Birdie had launched himself onto the dining table and knocked down a plate leftover from breakfast. I glared at him but he paid me no mind and began to bathe himself in the sunlight falling across the table.
"Get down you damn cat!" I shooed him from the table and turned back to where Frank was. He had risen from the floor and was attempting to contain his laughter. At the sight of him, appearing naked and shoulders shaking, I lost it and began giggling at nothing and everything all at once. At the sound of my laughter, Frank lost his composure and doubled up in hysterics. My ribs felt like they would burst, and my face was red from lack of oxygen. As our fit subsided, Frank made his way over to me, placing one hand on my hip and taking a hold of my hand as though we were about to dance.
He looked me in the eyes, "I do love you, Mrs. Randall."
I looked back at him, just long enough to notice his eyes were a deep brown flecked with hints of jade and honey. His eyes were beautiful. "I love you." I sighed and rested my head on his shoulder. I did weep then. The tears slipped from eyes, trailed down my cheeks and onto Frank's bare shoulder. He hugged me closer, so close I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs and reverberating against my sternum.
"Come." He said a few moments later, and he led me by the hand to our bathroom.
He drew a hot bath, and helped me undress when my limbs seemed to become unable to manage the work of removing my clothes. I had imagined I would be timid or shy to be naked in front of Frank again, but in fact I didn't mind at all. He offered his hand as I stepped in and sunk into the hot water. My skin went from pink to red in seconds. It felt wonderful.
I closed my eyes and relaxed. Frank left and returned a moment later. I peeled one eye open and saw that he brought back an empty pitcher and a mug of hot tea.
"Drink this." He thrust the mug into my hands.
Not an Irish coffee, but a hot toddy and a very strong one at that as well. I would be drunk if I consumed the whole thing and said as much.
"That's the idea." He poured lavender scented bath milk into the water.
"Frank."
"Not to worry, my dear, I would never take advantage of a woman worse for the wear. Surely, you know that?"
I gathered my knees to chest, and wrapped my arms around them to keep myself contained as Frank wet and lathered a wash cloth with soap. "Yes, of course." I took a large sip of tea, the heat of it warming my insides to match my outsides.
"Shall I?" He asked, holding the rag in the air.
"Yes, please." I laid back against the porcelain that pebbled my skin and peaked my nipples so quickly it was almost painful.
Frank reached into the tub and pulled my left foot from the water. I was in need of a pedicure, but let the thought come and go. Frank was my husband, he wouldn't didn't care if my toes were polished and perfect. He took his time and was gentle. He replaced the one foot and moved onto the second, repeating the process. His calm and thorough ministrations combined with the whiskey and tea, lulled me into a light sleep. Frank worked his way from my feet to my legs up to my torso and breasts and finally onto my hair.
I came fully awake then but was still deeply relaxed. The water had turned my extremities into rubber, both heavy and soft at the same time. He asked me to lean forward and came to stand behind me in the tub.
"Lean your head back."
He tipped the pitcher over and the water rushed over my head, down my neck and shoulders into the tub. Frank lathered the shampoo and massaged my scalp with the strong pressure of his fingertips. He refilled the pitcher and rinsed my hair clean then repeated the process with conditioner.
The water had drained from the tub by the time Frank had finished toweling me dry. He ran the towel over my head, playfully disordering my mop of curls.
"Frank." I breathed.
He lowered arms, revealing his face and form to me once more. "Yes?"
I closed the mere inches between us and kissed him deeply. His hands came to my face, and my cheeks rasped against the just beginning stubble on his chin. My skin was stilled flushed from the bath, but a different kind of heat was increasing between my thighs. I could feel him firmly through his boxer shorts, and pressed my hips against his.
He took my meaning and needing no further permission, Frank led me to the bedroom. At the foot of the bed, he stopped and kissed me. He was neither forceful nor gentle, but somewhere in between as he attempted to transfer his joy to me.
"Lie down." He directed, his voice low and husky with whiskey and need.
I lowered myself, inch by inch, my eyes locked on his. The cotton sheets were cool on my heated skin. I took a hold of his hands and brought him down over me. The wiry hairs on his chest tickled the sensitive tips of my breasts. I kissed him then, attempting to convey my own message: I want you-I missed you-I'm sorry.
He was gentle and rough, a combination of contradictions and tangled limbs. His lips were chapped and tasted of oak and turpentine. We were both more than a little drunk, but we giggled in joy like adolescents without the awkwardness of our first time. He was perfect. Oh God how I had missed him – missed us! And in that moment as we both fell over the edge, my heart broke but for the first time in a while I had hope that everything would be okay.