She got up and left.
She drove away for 37 miles and then a few hours later, she drove
back. In the meantime, I just laid
there, like nothing had happened.
When she came home, did she come see me? No. She had a bowl of cereal and watched the end
of a football game. By her exuberant
cheering, I can only guess that it was a good game. But how would I
know…I was still just lying there, disregarded.
Wow.
I mean....I was there for her. Really there for her. Her old bedsheets, well they'd just rip and tear and she'd duct tape them just to wake the next morning to more rips and tears.
But not me. I'm 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton, next day delivery.
I’m sorry. I get it. I really do understand. You can duct tape a worn bedsheet, but you can’t duct tape a worn woman.
So, right after she took me out of the package and stretched me over her mattress, I lay there for 18 minutes while she tried to take selfies. I wanted it as much as she did. I liked how much she cared. It was
endearingly pathetic.
I hoped, like she, that if she just twisted and turned that
aged body enough, she would find that magic angle and make all those years disappear. So I lay beneath her nakedness, supporting
her the only way a bedsheet knows how. She stretched to conceal the sags and writhed
to disguise the rolls. I cheered for
her the same way she cheered for that football team. Hoping she too could pull off an improbable
win, late in her fourth quarter. This too was going to be a very close game, but
instead of it being Chiefs vs Broncos, the contest would be Acceptance vs Disdain.
Then, after all was said and done, I watched her delete,
delete, delete.
Rolling on to her tummy and resting her chin on her
fist. She smirked the most beautiful
smirk ever smirked, pressed the photo button one more time and captured perfection.
Then she got up, put on her pickleball
clothes and left.
Now, another game is about to start on the TV and this time
we will watch it together in bed. Tonight
we will rest and wake up to a bright tomorrow.
