Some things you just never grow out of.

Becoming an adult is supposed to mean that all those childhood quirks have long since slinked away and there is nothing left but a bold and daring spirit. Or so I believed. Until I crossed the threshold of adulthood. Those insecurities and miniscule paranoias are smarter than we think. They haven’t been conquered by the sheer volume of age, they have simply become better at hide and seek. You can trust me on this one. I discovered this truth all on my own.

I have become afraid of the dark. Again. My brave moments of adulthood are now faintly glowing memories of a short-lived era. I curl up beneath the thick weight of a down-comforter and hug my knees. Head burrowed down somewhere between pillow, sheet and woolly blankets; there is an ounce of safety in the bed linens. The lamp on the nightstand with an ugly coffee stain on the shade stays on until the last possible moment and sometimes the cranberry-scented candles aren’t blown out until dawn. One of these days I am going to wak up in a pile of ashes instead of bedroom walls because of that habit.

There was a time in the not-too-distant past that I relished spreading out on the queen mattress all by myself. At five foot nine inches, there are no mysterious edges to a bed. Hands, feet, fingers, toes, elbows and knees ferret out that space where mattress pad meets cold air. The sheer pleasure of mile upon mile of mulberry colored 400 thread count sheets is now lost on me. I want nothing more than to feel squished by the presence of a body next to mine. Tonight I have decided to blame this distater on you.

The phone rings and a few fingers surface from beneath the bedspread, tap around in search of the plastic voice box and then disappear back under the covers.

“Hello?” is my muffled greeting.

“Hi honey. Sorry it’s so late but I wanted to call and say goodnight.” I can hear weariness in your voice and realize today must have been long and difficult. Sympathy wells up and a head starts to emerge from the bed but spite wins out.

“What do you want?” is the grumbled and almost inaudible response to your greeting.

“Are you okay?” Long pause. “Where are you?” You are trying not to let too much concern creep into your tone and I know it is because I hate anyone who is overbearing and you are particularly sensitive to that.

I suddenly realize that sophisticated women in their mid twenties do not normally hold conversations with their husbands under the sheets…unless of course he’s in the same bed too. Sighing loudly enough for you to hear, I nevertheless summon up every ounce of maturity that is left and scoot up into the fresh air of the master bedroom. It is easier to be angry with you than be nice so I snap out a few biting comments a little too loudly.

I whine about the finances and how the neighbors dog pooped in our front yard again. The fact that the  mailman was late today pissed me off. A man on the subway tried to get my phone number and the wash wasn’t put in the dryer before work this morning so it smelled like mildew this evening.

You on the other end of the line brushed your teeth. I know you did because I can hear the water and that obnoxious sucking noise you make with your teeth. I wish I could picture where you were standing when the tidal wave of my words slapped you.

Then there is silence. The phone pops and crackles as the seconds click by on the small green screen I hold to my ear. How long? I wonder. How long will I be married to a little piece of plastic? When will I get a man again? A warm body in bed with me. Cold toes seeking out mine and soft giggles.

Instead I am alone in a blue-painted room with two dressers, two night stands, two lamps and one being curled in a ball, phone smashed against an ear, barely visible beneath the pile of blankets.

It doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right. The days spent by myself are bearable because those hours are filled in the way ink consumes the dot on an “i” or water fills the glass almost to the top. The nights are a different story. I roam around the empty rooms of our house in your enormous size thirteen slippers and baggy plaid pajama pants. Thoughts bounce off the walls and sometimes collide in the center of the living room, sending off sparks. No one else is here to bear witness though and so the thoughts become empty, useless containers tossed aside and land crumpled in the recycle bin.

You are still waiting on the other end of those 300 odd miles that seperate us. I sigh again. Then I pick up Billy Collins and read to you over the phone. Laughter fills the small cocoon in the middle of the bed. It may be tinny laughter barely loud enough for me to share but I can hear it all the same. Your voice resonates within me, deep and warm.

Suddenly the lonely days melt into the memories of weekends together. It is always sunny when you are here. I have to believe that is a metaphor for something important. I flip a few more pages and read another poem. When it’s done you say, “I love you”. There is a small but pregnant silence, filled with emotions that don’t travel well over distance.

“I love you too,” I say, “Now let me read you one more poem before we say goodnight.” A brief glance at the alarm clock indicates the end of one night and the very early beginnings of another day. “Okay,” you say, “one more and then sweet dreams.” My voice echoes in the spacious room as I wrap my tongue around each word, letting Billy Collins say all that I can’t. At the end there is goodnight and then stillness. It is still seven hours until the buzz of the alarm will sound. I cannot sleep now but at least I heard your voice. You don’t know this, but I captured every word in a small wooden box that rests on the nightstand. I keep the lid off while we talk and then snap it shut when we hang up, capturing everything and letting nothing escape. Even the ugly words get caught inside.

In the stillness I crack that little box and let your voice escape and whisper to me. I close my eyes and disappear into my warm cave. Sleep will follow eventually.

It’s not so bad, I tell myself, being married to a traveling salesman. It’s not so bad. With that my eyelids close and I drift away with your voice playing in my head.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A short story written a few years ago while my husband was working mostly from 300 miles away and I held down on the home fort.