STORIES: A Seasonal Life (Continuation, Part III)

“Morning, Hon,” says William, and you’d never know he doesn’t love me. His smile is open but empty; devoid I think, of feeling that he may not even think to feel. He’s handsome still, with just a touch of graying in his beard, a touch of paunch barely noticeable in the perfectly tailored suit I made him buy—that one time he went shopping with me, and tolerated both the tailor and I fussing through two suits, three jackets, seven slacks. The ties and shirts I pick up without his consultation; plain white, light blue, solids and pinstriped. Once long ago I gave him a navy and burgundy paisley tie that he has never worn. I will not throw it out. “Good morning,” I reply.
He reaches for his glass of grapefruit juice, shuffling through the morning paper I bring in off the front step every morning and set on the counter by his glass, and while he reads, he tells me what is on his mind. “You slept on the couch again last night,” he says without concern; a statement.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I offer apologetically. “I guess it’s just that time of year again.”
He nods and reaches for a piece of toast with quince jelly, spread thin the way he likes it. “Guess we ought to paint our bedroom grey,” he says, but there is a quick smile that lingers after he has glanced at me to speak. I can’t help laughing at this private joke we have between us. Grey is a reference to cave-like walls. Our theory is that with the crispness of the autumn air I revert to basic instincts; attempt to hibernate and eat more than I normally do to add a layer of fat for winter. Good genes prevent the latter; a family that demands my time precludes escaping into sleep.
William, having finished juice and reading simultaneously, tells me of a meeting late in his day but that he should still be home by seven, picks up his briefcase and kisses me goodbye. It’s not the distracted goodbye kiss husbands and wives get used to after being married for a while; it’s more as if a conscious effort is being made to remember. I think that he would be more likely to walk out the front door in the paisley tie than forget to kiss me; it’s so planned and sterile.