I perch on the edge of the bed, cross one leg over the other, and wait patiently. The room is dark, save for the candles I’ve lighted. My heart skips a beat when John finally swings the door open. I shoot him a playful smile, but his reaction is not the one I’d expected — he looks tired and not too enthusiastic.
I know he’s had a long travel day, and I understand, but a small part of me feels rejected. I know he loves me, but is he still attracted to me?
He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, and rakes his hair. “You look gorgeous, Gabbie,” he says, but there’s no excitement in his eyes — no arousal.
He inches closer, and kisses me softly. “I thought I’d get to bed early tonight. I’m exhausted.”
I nod. “Yeah… sure.” I put on a brave face, but I’m devastated. “I understand.”
He shoots me a playful smile. “But tomorrow, I’ll come and find you.” He wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me in closer. “You know I prefer it when the kids are not around anyway… I love to hear you.”
I smile, and hold on to that promise. I wonder if I’ll still be in the mood tomorrow. I’ll probably be busy doing laundry or unloading the dishwasher, or working on a painting. I’ll have to put everything on hold so he can have his way with me, on his terms, on his schedule. I won’t be into it at first, but he’ll turn me around, and he’ll probably make me come because he usually does.
Well, at least there’s that.
* * *
How did you get into art?Eli asks.
—
I started in my first year of college. My roommate was an art major, and she snuck me into the studio, and taught me a few tricks. I’d just broken up with a boy and needed the distraction. I’ve taken a lot of art classes over the years, but never officially studied it. How about you?
—
Ever since I can remember. My mother was an artist. She was amazing.
I don’t want to be nosy, but I want to know. Perhaps because I’ve lost my own mother.
Did your mother pass away?
—
Yes, she died three years ago. She had breast cancer. She was only fifty-nine years old.
—
I’m so sorry to hear that. My mother passed away too, two years ago. Car accident. She was seventy-five.
—
I’m so sorry. You and I have a lot in common. Losing your mother changes you.
—
Yes, very much. I never had a chance to say goodbye. She was taken away so suddenly. Did you get to say goodbye?
—
Luckily, I did. It was the hardest day of my life. But unfortunately, I wasn’t there for her when she was sick.
I want to know more. Why wasn’t he there? Had they had a falling out? But I don’t dare ask. It’s not my place.
What kind of art did she do?I ask instead — it seems like safe territory.
And I wait. And wait. I’m not sure why he’s not replying.
Emma is frowning. “Mommy, why are you not helping us?”
