To the women who keep me from going off the deep end,
and the ones who should have had me killed.
The Last Hundred Yards
It was supposed to be my day. The day I’d get everything finished. The day I’d be free from the iron fist of my To Do list. The chores were small, but they’d piled up. And today, I had the time to check them off one by one. I had hopes of crossing the finish line with enough time to let out a long sigh and take a much-deserved nap on the couch, but if it wasn’t in the cards I’d settle for an early dinner and good night’s sleep.
Not only was the alarm ringing at 6:00 am, but also the distinct scream of children rattled through the house. I’m sure you’ve encountered the shrill screech that only young girls can make. I guess I shouldn’t be so sexist. There are plenty of young boys that can make the sound as well, but I had girls. The screams were quick, however often, as if the oldest were jumping out from behind blind corners and grabbing the two younger girls.
I could hear my wife’s morning voice, “Girls, your father’s still asleep.”
“Not anymore,” I tried to be happy about being awake.
I staggered into the kitchen, yawning and scratching my way to the coffee pot. My wife made the most horrendous coffee. You would think anyone could throw Folger’s in an automatic pot and make something better than prison sludge, but not my wife. For all her endearing qualities, this poor woman couldn’t make anything remotely edible. Ironically, I drank her coffee every morning. Maybe it was loyalty, but I thought of it as penance for the bad decisions I’d made in life. I figured there’s no reason to start a disappointing day with a great cup of coffee, it will just get your hopes up.
“Morning, dear.” Her voice was sweet and condescending at the same time. I remember thinking she was trying too hard to make today special as she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I stood there glazed, going through the motions, “Morning.”
As she turned to tend to the girls and get them ready for school, I thought about how I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how beautiful she was, how I missed the time when we were so much in love, and how I knew she was having an affair. But instead, I just took my cup of coffee and headed back upstairs to take a shower.
The shower quickly wrapped me in a womb-like state of complacency and daydream. The philandering of my younger years flooded my mind. Adolescent love and sex surrounded my senses and I could feel the warmth of my past lovers. Their scents, soft skin and nubile bodies pressed against me and my mind fooled me deeper into the fantasy. As cliché and necessary as it may have been, I refused to masturbate. Much like a stripper’s con, these prurient thoughts only reminded me of passion I no longer possessed. It was bullshit. And as much as I wished for another go-round at my youth, those days were gone. I opened my eyes, looked in the mirror, and was assured of that.
I got dressed just in time to kiss the girls and watch them leave for the bus stop. I felt slightly guilty as they waved from the driveway. And although I had just finished wishing this life had never existed, their smiles reminded me that my love for my daughters more than made up for the anger and resentment of my empty marriage. This happy thought was erased as I turned back into the house.
My wife and I didn’t speak until I was ready to leave. “I’ll be back later,” I shouted.
She came to the top of the stairs in her bathrobe, “I hope you get everything done. I’ll see you…”
“No later than four,” I said.
We exchanged I love you’s and I was out the door. It was reminiscent of my teenage years when I would dismiss my mother and run off with my friends to score beer or cheerleaders. Too bad today was filled with inane errands.