“Of course I do. I haven’t lived here for eleven months. I’m not going to waltz into your house like it’s still mine,” I say, stepping inside. “And why are you answering the door butt naked?”
He grins. “I’m not naked.” He looks down at himself and adds, “I have on pants.”
“Well, put a shirt on. I don’t want to see all that.”
“You sure? For a minute there, I thought you forgot where my eyes were.”
I glare at him. As right as he is, I don’t want him reading too much into anything.
“Whatever.”
He laughs and heads toward the stairs, saying, “Yeah, I know it’s whatever.”
Meanwhile, I walk through the house, feeling melancholy and nostalgia converging upon me, swelling my chest. We’ve had so many memories here, and they weren’t all bad. In fact, the majority of them are good. When we first got married, we made love in every inch of this house – that sofa, kitchen chairs, the island, counters…tables, one of them which we broke – the coffee table in the living room. It was replaced by a much sturdier one. One we never got around to testing. Everything else in this unhumble abode is basically the same. He even has our wedding photo hanging over the fireplace. I suppose he put it back up since his parents were coming and why wouldn’t he? It is of the utmost imperativeness that he pleasesMommyandDaddy–especially his nagging mama with her synthetic wigs and perfume that’s so strong, it’ll catch your nose hairs on fire. She’s always at him about something and, at this point, I don’t know if he’s being a good son or a foolish man-boy because, at what point does a man put his foot down and let his mama know she ain’t running nothing up in his house?
“Is this suitable enough for you?” he asks. I turn around to see that he has on a white ribbed tank that contours to his pectorals. No, it’s not suitable, because my eyes can still trace the shape of his pectorals and ride the mountainous curves of his biceps, but I say, “Yes. Better.”
I turn back to look at the picture of us above the mantle and say, “You’re really going all-out for your folks, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
I thought it was self-explanatory, but I gesture toward our wedding photo and say, “You put that back up.”
He says, “No. I never took it down.”
Surprised, I turn to look at him and ask, “You didn’t?”
“No. Why would I? I still love you. You’re the one who hates me. The picture stays. Forever.”
Stunned, I stare into his eyes. I still see love in them, but unfortunately, I can’t handle bits and pieces of him. I want a whole man, a whole body, a whole mind. If I can’t have that, I won’t have anything.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Okay…um...what do we need to discuss?”
“Take a beat, Cyn. Everything doesn’t have to be rushed.”
“I’m not rushing. I just like getting straight to the point. Now, what are we doing?”
He smiles, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. It greatly pisses me off because I feel like he’s purposely trying to get under my skin.
He says, “Let’s go sit down in the kitchen. I have food.”
Huffing sharply, I roll my eyes. I wish I was at home in my cozy apartment, getting ready to eat dinner before crashing on the sofa. Instead, I’m here, about to get a lesson in faking a happy marriage.
Yay me…
“Have a seat,” he instructs.
I walk into the kitchen. There’s a spread on the dinette there with lasagna, a garden salad, and breadsticks.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“I just had a lil’ something prepared since I knew you were coming. I figured you’d be less combative if I fed you first.”
I laugh and say, “Combative?Really, Brix? You think I’m combative?”
“Toward me you are.”
He hands me a plate. I dig into this lasagna, plowing through a thick bed of melted cheese, noodles, and sauce. Oh, it smells good! I haven’t had that in a long time, and this one looks like it was made for royalty.
