She's beautiful, stunning even, as she crosses her threshold, briefcase balanced precariously in her hand as she pulls the door to and locks the bolt. Her keys slip back into their home inside her right jacket pocket before she turns around and smiles; the fingers now free of keys lift in a delicate wave before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
He grins, the hand not wrapped around his coffee mug lifting to wave back at her just as it has done almost every morning for the last five months. This is their routine, safe, comfortable, and bloody frustrating.
You can learn a lot from watching someone for that long, months of goodbye kisses to her son as he rushes for the school bus, business meetings heralded by slightly higher heels and straighter skirts, sick days wrapped in fluffy sweaters and soft slippers. Yet most of his learning has been from afar, miles of imagination filling in the blanks left by the scant 100 feet between their two front yards
Today must be a good day; she's wearing a pair of pointed 4 inch heels that accentuate the sinful expanse of her stocking coated legs visible below the hemline of her black pencil skirt. He thinks he sees a glimpse of burgundy silk below her suit jacket as she saunters towards her car; she looks amazing in that color, it compliments the olive tones of her skin, the soft whiskey brown of her eyes. Her hair is down, soft curls framing her face in perfect bouncing waves as she deposits her briefcase in the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. Yes, today is definitely a good day, but that's not always the case.
Some days the heels aren't as high, the skirts not quite as short. Some mornings she leaves her home with her fingers wrapped around the end of a cane, structured business suits swapped for flowing dresses or loose wide-leg pants and cashmere tops, anything that won't irritate her skin or torture tender muscles and joints. Those days her makeup is more deliberate, layers of foundation and concealer slathered on to cover the red flush of her cheeks until all that's left is what appears to be a healthy glow.
He knows the truth, the words she is unwilling to say. He understands the distance she builds up between herself and the world brick by torturous brick, but he wants to explain how unnecessary it is, how she doesn't need to hide from him, he wants to hold her and reassure her until she believes what he already knows-she is stunning, in every way-but instead he sips his coffee, waves one last time as she pulls out of the drive, and carries on with his day.
...
She checks her watch one more time, 8:15 on the dot. She pours out the remainder of her coffee before rinsing out the purple butterfly mug Henry gave her for her last birthday and placing it gently in the top rack of the dishwasher. Snagging her suit jacket off its place draped along the back of her chair, she pads through the house to the front entrance.
She eyes her shoe rack carefully, mentally cataloging every ache and pain, deciding whether her hips and knees can tolerate the pressure of standing in heels if she doesn't get a seat at the morning briefing. The rest of her agenda rattles through her brain, a client meeting at eleven, lunch date at noon, research and filing, picking Henry up from soccer, then groceries and supper as she decides, yes, she can handle the heels today. She selects a pair of pointed, four inch maroon heels with a chunky ankle strap (the extra support might help if she gets to the briefing room too late and ends up standing) that compliment her blouse.
Shrugging on her jacket she checks her appearance in the hall mirror, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt and touching up her lipstick before snagging her briefcase and opening the door to face the day; to face him.
He must be working from home today; he's still in his plaid pajama pants, a thin gray robe hanging from his shoulders with a pale blue t-shirt underneath that highlights his ocean colored eyes. He looks cozy and soft, like a comfortable place to land at the end of the day, as if he's completely at home in his own skin and for a moment she feels a spark of envy curl up her spine, but only for a moment.
He's smiling at her, he's always smiling at her in a way that makes her stomach fill with butterflies and her face flush with something other than illness. She smiles back, waving hello as she does every morning before tucking a stubborn piece of hair blowing across her eyes behind her ear.
She can feel the warm caress of his gaze as she walks over to her Benz, the way his eyes follow her every move as she slides into her seat and closes the door, disappearing into the quiet shelter of her car. It normally makes her feel vulnerable, to be seen so openly and so often, but something about him feels oddly familiar, safe almost. She closes her eyes as she waits for the heat to warm through the vehicle and imagines what it would be like to wave goodbye after leaving him in the morning, to walk up his pathway at the end of the day and fall into open arms and the smell of his cologne.
Okay, now she is losing it. Whatever pills they have her on this course must be messing with her emotions, her hormones, something.
Shaking it off she squares her shoulders and pulls out of the drive. Turning back to look at him one last time, waving quickly, she drives away from the fantasy of a life she imagines for five minutes at the start and finish of every day, ready to face the complications of reality.