And then my whispering that name into David’s ear. The truly inexplicable. Even now, my skin tingles to think of it.
Who the hell is Emma?
And why for the love of God would I whisper another woman’s name into my husband’s ear while our bodies were entwined together and heat filled our room?
But I did. I said it, and the night was over. David froze as the final, whispered syllable crawled its way out of my lips, then rolled out from beneath me with a motion that wasn’t meant to be graceful. When I’d adjusted myself to face him his shoulders were to me, his head pressed into his pillow.
‘What is it?’ My question was innocent enough. ‘What did I do?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he answered, in a way that made it clear that it was certainly not nothing. I could tell he was controlling his breathing. The melting bumps of gooseflesh wilted on the sides of his back.
I briefly felt badly, wondering whether I’d stirred up some old pain. David isn’t a fragile man, but he’s not exactly the most open with his feelings, either, which makes it hard to know when I might accidentally knock the scab off some emotional wound he’s never fully shared. That’s the rub in holding things back from people you love: you open yourself to being tortured by them, since they can never know what territory of your heart is whole and what is tender.
‘David, if I said something to upset you, I’m—’
‘I said it’s nothing!’ No concealing the clap to his voice, like thunder when you haven’t seen the lightning; but then a long, controlling sigh. A softer tone emerged from the thunder a few seconds later, though the words were still stiff and forced. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just tired.’ Hesitation. ‘We’re both tired.’
I wasn’t tired. My body was still on fire, tingling and energized. I reached out to his shoulder and tugged on it provocatively. It was still hot, his body disagreeing with his words.
‘I’m sure we can get a little energy back if we try.’
David pulled the shoulder away in a strong, singular motion.
‘Enough, Amber. Enough.’ Then a sustained lacuna, as if he were pondering what to say next.
‘Let’s just go to sleep. I have a busy day ahead of me in the morning. We probably shouldn’t have started this anyway. Drink some water, you need to hydrate. Get some rest.’
He pulled the sheet up over his shoulders and curled himself yet further away from me. And there I was, naked and uncovered on my half of the bed, utterly confused as to what had just happened.
I don’t know when I fell asleep. I had my long draw of water as David had recommended. He always encourages me to keep a bottle by the bedside; saves having to traipse downstairs if I get a midnight thirst – and it’s just like him to think of my welfare, even at a moment he’s obviously upset. It soothed a little, but neither my body nor my mind were in the mood for rest. I remember staring at our bedroom ceiling for what felt like fifteen or twenty years. I got to know every feature of its poorly textured surface, probably once billed as ‘eggshell white’ but now suspiciously more the colour of dilute urine. We really, desperately need to repaint.
When I turned to David again he was soundly asleep. Somehow I got a handful of the sheets back and covered myself up. I don’t remember much after that, except for frustrated jostling and annoyance at the fact that counting sheep just never works. They’re revolting, shaggy creatures anyway, fluffy-white only in comic strips. In reality they’re dirty and matted and pooping on absolutely everything, and they always just bleat and jump and carry on coming, and …
Morning eventually came, with David’s adjusted routine and the noises from the den. Finally, he left for work. I got a peck on the cheek before I rose from my pillow. That much, at least. All wasn’t lost.
The memories overlap in my mind. The sounds, the kiss, the usual routine in the bathroom. The stairs. The kitchen.
Beneath my feet the linoleum was cold, and the lights had finally flickered wholly to life. The revolting colours of the inbuilt décor glowed under them and the vision assaulted one of my senses, while the scent of coffee, gradually overpowering the lingering remnants of David’s cologne, assaulted another.
Coffee. There was half of a pot still in the carafe, dutifully prepared before David had left, and an empty cup beside it. An invitation, a gesture of reconciliation.
And a smoothie, some repellant shade of green, in a tall glass near the fruit basket, sitting atop an appointment reminder from the dentist’s office in lieu of a coaster.
But there was no note. And I can’t remember the last time David didn’t leave me a note.
There is no other choice. Not now. With what Amber said as we went to sleep, the way forward has become painfully, but perfectly, clear.
It might be politically correct to wish there were another way, but there isn’t, and I’ve learned not to waste my time with those kinds of emotions. We’re perilously close to falling off the only path that keeps us alive. Course correction is required, and a man shouldn’t lament what is simply necessary.
The solution – the only solution – doesn’t lie in anything new. The path we’re on is the right one. What needs to be adjusted isn’t the act, it’s the art of the dosage. I’d thought it had been high enough. Obviously I was wrong.
The particular concoction I’ve settled on acts deeply, almost at the core of the psyche, but that doesn’t mean more won’t sometimes be required.
One of its perks is that its interior impact lasts, even while its more physical effects – the grogginess, the confusion, the loss of control – wear off swiftly. An ideal pairing.
So this morning I did what I always do, adding it to what I know she’ll drink, this time with a few additional drops. It’s always been the easiest way to get it into her system. Some here, some there. Prep everything just right, make it a kind of invitation. She never resists.
I mixed the smoothie, trusting that the sound of the blender was so familiar now that it wouldn’t rouse her. There are other ways to get the job done – when we’re on a trip, or camping, or otherwise out and about. But when we’re home, when it’s the routine, this has become the standard.
The drink’s contents just filled a glass, and I left it on the counter.
Then the coffee. Always, always the coffee. An essential part of it.
A drop here, a drop there.
It will all have its effect. It will just take a day, maybe two – and everything will be made right.
My thoughts have been wandering too long. The bookshop is moving around me now, quietly but with gentle activity. I think I’ve tended to a few customers who’ve ventured to my corner and didn’t already know what they were after, but I can’t say I’m entirely sure. My memories, permitted freely between activities, have nevertheless seemed to invade the whole.
But it’s impossible to be oblivious to Chloe as she re-emerges from behind a bookshelf covered in paperback detective fiction and thrillers. A favourite genre of hers. As she appears, I impulsively fold down my laptop’s screen, which I’d been once again perusing from behind the stacks of magazines on