Fucking muddy boots.
My entire marriage is hinging on a pair of muddy boots with a pile of melting snow and dirt in my kitchen.
How the hell did we get here? Calvin and I just celebrated our seventh anniversary four months ago. Things haven’t been great, but they weren’t bad enough that I’d be contemplating packing my bags over a pair of damn boots.
But here we are. I have one foot in and one foot out of my marriage.
The offending man comes into the kitchen, water droplets still dampen his hair from the shower. “Hey babe, did ya pack my lunch for tomorrow? I’ve got to hit the sack now. Murray’ll be here at three in the mornin’.”
“No. Just get something on the drive like you always do.” My arms are crossed and my gaze bounces between my husbandand the damn boots, a scowl clearly on my face with my brows furrowed so hard I’ll need Botox.
For once his body isn’t distracting me. That’s how I know whatever this is has gone too far.
That man could charm the dew out of a honeysuckle. But not now, not with me.
Now, those abs have no effect. Not even the smattering of hair leading to the clearly defined V at the top of his waistband are distracting me.
He finally catches on to what is happening right here, right now as his eyes drift to the pile on the floor. “Oh… uh… sorry. I’ll get that in the mornin’.”
“At three in the morning? You’re going to clean up this mess?” I raise a brow, knowing damn well what’s going to happen.
He reaches out and pulls me in by the waist. “Of course. I love you.” He drops a quick peck to my forehead and lumbers off to bed.
Letting out a sigh I reminisce on a time when he couldn’t be that close to me without it turning into a full blown erotica novel right here in the kitchen.
Those days are gone, and they are replaced by messes, annoyance, missed dates from his volunteer firefighting or an animal giving birth, and quick pecks goodbye.
I’m not a morning person. And it’s still dark. I haven’t been able to fall back asleep since Calvin left. I am finally giving up and going in search of coffee.
Stumbling through the house I follow the well-known path to my coffee maker.
Until there’s an obstacle that stops me. Flipping on the light, I am greeted by the fucking muddy boots once again.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I knew what the outcome would be last night. But is it too much to hope for?
In my sleepy haze, I am too tired to be angry. I snap a photo of the boots and send them in a text to my husband.
Me:> Really???
Ignoring the mess for now, I trudge over to pour my coffee.
Stepping over them once more, I collapse onto the couch, turning on my favorite trashy reality show. There is nothing to make you feel better about yourself more than watching someone else fall apart on TV over something trivial.
Except isn’t that what I’m doing?
You can ask anyone and they will tell you that someone leaving their boots on the floor is a trivial matter.
What isn’t accounted for is all the other shit. Like the fact, I can’t remember the last time he kissed me, likereallykissed me. Or the last time we went on a date. Or the last time he put the cap on his toothpaste. Or even the last time he put his socks in the hamper.
No, all of this is a collection of trivial moments turned into a pivotal one.
I cannot fucking do this anymore.
I’ve been hit with a moment of clarity. I cannot stay here anymore. Starting my day with this much anger is not okay. Especially over boots.
I collapse back onto the couch, grateful that Calvin is gone for the next two days. That means I have two days to figure out my life going forward.
