Picking Up the Pieces

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Picking Up the Pieces

I left work early Friday, since I wasn’t getting much work done anyway, so I could be back at my apartment before, Faith would arrive from Wisconsin.  However, considering the woeful lack of provisions at my place, I made a stop at Trader Joe’s on the way.  I picked up mostly party food and other microwaveables.  As I have mentioned many times before, I hate to cook.  While Faith is an excellent cook, I thought it would be rude, and a little obvious, for me to fill my fridge with cookable straw with the clear expectation she’d transform it into edible gold.

When I got to my place, it was déjà vu all over again.  Faith was waiting at the front door, wearing a look of nervous expectation and unveiled desire.  Without preliminaries and with no pretense that this was going to be a platonic reunion, Faith kissed me, and I kissed her back, for the first time in 10 years.  That kiss was the answer to the question, “what is missing from my life?”  A question I hadn’t realized I’d been asking until I found the answer: “Oh yeah.  This.”  

It was like when you misplace your car keys only to find them in your hand all along, the ignorance of their presence as a form of absence.  It was like my mouth had never lost the taste of hers.  The smell of her breath was as familiar as my own.  I wanted to somehow pull her inside of me, but found that she was already there, an immovable presence, in the depth of my being. 

Finally, when the kiss threatened to make me drop the bags of groceries I’d been juggling, we broke and headed inside.   

Once we got to my apartment, we did what all long-time-no-see lovers do behind closed doors.  I won’t go into detail, but I will say that it was many hours before the groceries found their way into the refrigerator, and it wasn’t until sometime the next afternoon before any of them were eaten.  

I was lying in bed Sunday morning, with Faith still sleeping, her head nestled in the crook of my right arm.  I felt the ice that had formed over years of unsatisfied longing was finally beginning to melt. The weekend had not been a re-creation of the one 10 years before.  It had been much, much better, since it finally felt like we had reached a point in our mutual lives where our common dreams could be fulfilled, without barriers.

Then the door buzzer rang. Faith bolted from sleep and sat up. We both stared at each other. I had the same sense of impending doom that I’d felt driving Faith back home that long lost weekend before. 

The buzzer rang again, insistently, and I got up to answer it. I told myself that no matter who was at the door, no one would be able to separate Faith and me. Not this time.

“Hello?  Who is it?” 

“Dagwood Morehead,” said the booming male voice through my intercom. 

Oh yeah.... Faith’s husband.