April

I hate waking up in the middle of the night. The older I get, the more often it seems to happen. Sure, I’ve done the drug routine--Ambien, Lunesta, Rozerem--but I don’t want to become an addict like my sister. So here I am, prescription free and disappointedly alert. It’s raining hard, the drops pelting my bedroom window while the wind whips the branches and rattles the glass. How my husband sleeps through a storm like this is amazing. Nothing bothers that man. And what doesn’t bother him, usually annoys me.

The clock radio reads 2:24. It’ll be at least an hour before I doze off. Same crap every time. I flip my pillow, cool side up. Paul is in his usual spot, way off to the right, although he’s been known to wander on occasion. The blinds let in enough light to project a slatted rectangle on the blanket covering his bent form, the bald spot on his head marked in dingy yellow. He’s snoring the way I imagine a buffalo would--a throaty ripple, followed by a snorting inhale. I’ve asked him countless times to get one of those medical mouthpieces or consider a palatal implant, but he’s shrugged off each request with a “yeah, yeah.” We’ll see what happens the next time he wants a blowjob.

I laugh. That’s a funny one. When was the last time Paul asked for one of those? Sex has become a calendar item for us, something to mark anniversaries and special occasions. How did spontaneity end up a dirty word, I wonder? Am I fat? Are my tits sagging? I’m not sure what I see or should see in the mirror anymore. Maybe it’s not my body. Maybe my husband’s just exhausted from the daily routine of working and hanging out with the kids after dinner. Or sleeping next to the same piece of ass for twelve years. Or maybe the answer is more cliché than I realize: complacency.

At least my boss thinks I’m attractive. Aaron’s married and quite the flirter. He’s always trying to get me alone or offering to buy me dinner. I know if I let him have the chance, he’d have his way with me. Would my husband suspect anything? Probably not. Paul’s as dense as concrete. To get him to pay attention to our household finances is hard enough, let alone my needs.

“What are you doing?” he asked me about a month ago when I started to strip off his clothes.

“Getting you naked,” I said.

“Why?”

I bit his ear, in part because I was trying to turn him on, but mostly because he was pissing me off. I then put a half tab of Viagra in his hand.

“Oh,” he said.

I would have thought my single act of depravity might have stoked the long-dead fire in my husband. I was wrong. Days after, he was back to going to bed early and snoring like a buffalo. Then I’d wake up around six to catch him lying on his side beneath the covers, facing the wall and jiggling the bed just a little. What a pig--not a grope my way, nor the decency to do it in the shower. Did he think he was so clever, or that the maid washed the sheets?

The downpour is picking up, hitting the window in torrents. I’ve never liked rain. It’s always cold, messes up my hair, and forever makes me wish I could stay home and sleep through it. My mother used to say, “But sweetie, you know what they say about April showers.” I’m sure she did that just to torture me. My mother was interminably miserable and wanted everyone around her to feel the same.

3:05. Still not sleepy, but cranky as hell. I need to think of something positive. That’s easy: my darlings, Trevor and Ashley. They remind me each day of everything right in the world. I’ll give Paul his due on this one accomplishment: being an involved father. His children are as much a reflection of him as they are of me. Trevor’s sick? No problem--“I’ll take him the doctor,” Paul would say. Ashley’s misbehaving in school again? “Relax, hon, don’t get up. I’ll talk to her.” I’m a firm believer in fate. Which is why, despite how I feel now, I know in my heart of hearts that Paul was meant to be the father of my children.

Paul turns my way and his breathing normalizes. At last! The streetlight illuminates a calm expression on his face, his lips pressed lightly together, the corners creased into a fraction of a smile. Maybe he’s dreaming about taking Trevor to the park, or helping Ashley with her homework, or, just maybe, holding my hand like he did when we’d walk in the autumn evenings, wheeling our daughter’s stroller and counting the number of trees with different-colored leaves. I’d like to think he’s dreaming of all of them.

I reach over to the nightstand and ease the top drawer open. Beneath a stack of receipts and papers is a manila envelope. It’s dark, but I know the feel of its coarse surface. Inside is a single photographic printout. I fish it out. I remember how grainy it was the first time the doctor showed it to me; the way the conical wedge cut through the black background to reveal a fuzzy spot inside my womb. I gently rub the surface of the photo and then put it back.

The rain is a steady drizzle now. The wind is gone. I’m tempted to check the time, but my lids are getting heavy. Instead, I edge my body toward the middle, take my husband’s hand and put it over my belly.

THE END

©2009 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.