It Is Always This Way

She puts the baby down and tells her husband that she is going for a walk.  He is absorbed in a video game; his thumbs fly rapidly from button to button. 

Stepping out the back door into the star filled night, the warm air envelops her in a hug. She looks into the sky and breathes deep. The air fills her lungs.  The farther from the house she gets the quicker she walks.  Down the street, around the corner, over the bridge to the old apartment building on the street with the less than stellar reputation. 

Navigating the roots jutting out of the ground, litter strewn by careless tenants, and the occasional discarded piece of furniture, she finds her way to the sliding door. It has been left open just a crack, enough to confirm that she is expected tonight. Silently she pushes the door open and slides through the opening.

A box fan roars in one corner of the room.  A cat rolls around lazily seemingly unaware of the racket. Socks, shoes, books, candy wrappers are strewn about the floor.  She picks her way across the floor to the bed. Waiting with open arms, snuggled in blankets and pillows is the woman that she loves. She falls heavily into her arms and buries her face in her neck. 

Eventually they must untangle and separate.  A clock counting down the stolen minutes looms above the bed. Reluctantly she swings her legs off the mattress. She pulls her shirt over her head and feels arms reach around her from behind. “Don’t go.” It is always this way.

She gently pries her arms apart and stands up to finish dressing. Again the arms wrap around her waist.  “Please don’t go.” She hears the catch in her voice. She knows the tears are not far behind. It is always this way.

She moves quickly. Breathless by the time she reaches her house, she eases through the back door, it shuts quietly. She pads across the kitchen floor to the living room door.

Video game music blares from the television; her husband’s thumbs fly from button to button. 

Paula,
When I wrote this and sent it to you, you said, "Well you've definitely portrayed my room much cleaner than it actually was!" That was you, always making jokes, making me laugh. 

When I mentioned I was thinking of writing our story, you told me that I should. You told me that you trusted me to tell it, that  you were honored that I wanted to tell it. Well I do want to. And I will. And I will dedicate it to you. 

Thank you for loving me through everything we went through. Thank you for loving me enough to know when to let me go. It's because of you that I learned to love myself and other people. I'm so thankful that the last thing I said to you was that I loved you. I do and always will. Rest in peace and Happy Birthday. 

With love,
Lorinda