This is not about her; that would be wrong, low down dirty wrong.
Neither is this about him, he has nothing to do with what this is.
This is about me, thinking, letting my mind go there.
You are in your car, driving, and she is there, waiting. Knowing you are coming to her.
See, I know that too.
I know she is waiting for you.
Of course, I don’t know what it is like when you arrive. Do you carry bags in, lay your keys down, read the mail? Do you ask what has happened in your absence, pet the dog, take out the trash?
Or do you run? Does she rush to you, as I want to? Do you spend minutes drinking in what you have been without?
Are you greeted without words, only arms and kisses, does she hold you fiercely, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in, simply feeling you?
Does she already dread your leaving?
Do you always make love, those nights you return? Do you sleep intertwined, reassuring?
I have had few separations, few reunions - dramatic because they are rare. Are yours unremarkable in their regularity?
I should not do this, ought not let myself imagine these scenes, one way or the other. I do not belong there, I am unwelcome, an interloper. It is wrong to imagine this, way out of bounds.
Its not that I want to take this from her - I couldn’t anyway. It is hers. She owns this, however it unfolds. It is hers, I should not covet this.
It is not healthy for me either.
Yet I do this, because my mind is idle, my house momentarily empty and silent.
And you are on the road.
Ruth Webb is a middle aged soccer mom, reporter, columnist and human who is trying to learn about herself by writing. She lives in rural Appalachia where she reads, writes, surfs the web and tries to maintain faith in humanity, in that order.