the thoughts of an avid reader

What are you waiting for? Has the alarm gone off yet? You don’t want to be late.

She crawled out of bed because the slow scratchiness of his voice drove her mad. Every morning it was the same routine. He would roll over ten minutes before the alarm just to see if it had gone off. For the last six meandering years they woke up Monday to Friday with an agenda. Her calendar was full with little time for their children; she spent her mornings prodding them to get ready for school, eat breakfast, and run fast enough to catch the bus. He lay in bed wondering why they were still married. He was the parent; he was the marriage. It stuck because he wanted the cohesiveness despite his wife’s constant need for spontaneity and change. She worked. He worked. But she brought home the money and he always had to remember that. He was just the father of her children and the maid that kept the loft clean.

He fell out of bed and slipped on a pair of slippers. He pulled the curtain strings and rays of light shone through the Venetian blinds as they folded ever so neatly. No speck of dust fell from the valence as the shades collected in the newly lit corner. The skyline towered the bay and cars crawled in and out of the city. Today would be the day he dusted and cleaned up the unnecessary clutter that gave the impression a slob was about. The reflection he saw in the mirror was not the fit, clean shaven, sought after man he once knew. Marriage does that he guesses. Bags under your eyes. Receding hairline. A noticeable stubble. Even though she spent a considerable amount of time each week at the spa, his dedication to love, family, and home were placed above his wellness. From the recently opened pack of cigarettes placed on the bed stand on his side of the bed (just to the left of his wallet, keys, and charging cell phone), a fresh Marlboro Menthol found its way to his lips. He inched the sliding glass door open enough for his body to fit through. Exhale, he thought. The biting cold caused him to shudder as he reached for the matchbook. It was from RESTAURANT. It was his attempt at closing the gap between he and his wife. They sat on opposite sides of the booth. Two strikes and he inhaled. Did his problems go away? No. They strutted out of the bathroom. Hair in a towel and robe barely on. The voice was muffled by the glass, the sirens below, and the soothing sound of his own thoughts, “Could you clip this? I put too much lotion on.” Or were they someone else’s invading the attempt to silence, which happens to be the loudest noise he knows. His short stubby fingers never clasped jewelry well. He wondered why he bought it for her.