Broken Glass Forever
He whispers, “I love you.” His voice is low. It’s luscious, tender. It drips like salted caramel ice cream on an August afternoon. “Fuck, I miss you.”
My husband’s euphonious tone is reminiscent of the first few weeks after we met. The honeymoon phase. His words ooze longing and lust and languidly leave his full lips. I can remember melting to those words; I was mush. My heart would flutter and my stomach would flip and my overworking brain would drown in endorphins and I’d be on top of the moon, blissful and high, in a dream-like state hoping to never leave that moment in time with the man I chose to be with forever and ever. Because he was mine and we were so deeply in love it seemed like we’d never skim the surface of a normal life ever again.
This time, however, he isn’t saying those words to me. He hasn’t given me a thought, not even a second thought. I’m as invisible as my love apparently is to him.
I’m stopped outside of our en-suite bathroom. My chest has been bound with a tangle of taut ropes and my fingers tremble like poached eggs on their way to brunch. I’m afraid to move, even an inch, because I’m not confident that my legs will hold me up. The world, our world, has stopped. My ears are flooded with my heavy heartbeats and I’m willing it all to shut the fuck up so I can hear what he’s going to say next.
“Do you miss me? I can’t wait to see you. I don’t know how I’m gonna get through the next two weeks until then.” There’s a pause. He moans. I’d snarl in disgust if I wasn’t so petrified. “I know, I wanna suck your tits and feel you on top of me right now.”
After that, I only hear fragments of what he’s saying. The words “beautiful” and “laugh” and “mine” jump out to maul me in the face and I hear him making plans for next Halloween and the costumes they’ll both wear. He . . .