Page 104 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Meaning?”

“I want you to come home,” he reiterated. “I’m done with the no talking or seeing each other. I’m tired of being patient and understanding. You’re my husband.”

“I’m not coming home with you,” I said.

“Ever?” He croaked. “Is this it, then?”

I took a breath. I knew the answer, but saying it out loud would open a line of questions from Peter that I wasn’t prepared to answer. Additionally, it would be admitting that my leaving—my staying gone and not talking to him—had been a selfish, immature act.

“Tonight. I’m not going anywhere with you tonight.”

Peter didn’t speak for several moments. When he did, his voice was measured. Less desperate. Hopeful.

“Okay. I can live with that. I guess I have to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I should leave,” Peter said softly.

Rolling my eyes, I rose from the sofa.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket,” I said. “You’ll hurt yourself if you try to go home, Peter.”

“I’m perfectly fine to—”

“Take your coat and shoes off,” I said, ignoring him as I walked towards the hallway. “I don’t want your dirty shoes on my sofa. And you won’t sleep well with your coat on.”

Peter didn’t make any sound as I walked down the hallway to my bedroom and got a warm blanket and an extra pillow from the closet. When I got back to the living room, cradling his bedding in my arms, he had managed to remove his shoes. He had kicked them off haphazardly so that they were laying on their sides, a few feet away from him. He looked exhausted—and drunk—as though the small act of taking off his shoes had taken the last bit of his energy.

I set the blanket and pillow on the end of the sofa and sat down next to Peter. He didn’t resist me as I slowly slid his jacket off and tossed it onto the easy chair. Peter simply stared into my eyes, watching me as I helped him. Finally, I rose from the sofa and grabbed the pillow. I gestured for Peter to lay down as I slipped the pillow under his head, with him still staring at me. Then I shook the blanket out and laid it atop him, making sure he was covered well. Even though I ran the heat at a reasonable temperature, my apartment could get cold at night.

As my hands brought the blanket down, making sure it was tucked under his chin, Peter snaked a hand out from under it and grabbed my wrist. I froze, wondering if he was going to do something regrettable, something that would start another fight. Instead, he stared up into my eyes as I stayed there, frozen and bent over him. When his other arm snuck out from under the blanket and went out to cup the back of my neck, I didn’t resist.

Peter brought my face down to his. When his lips pressed against mine, I returned the kiss. Because I did miss Peter’s kisses. I wasn’t prepared to do more than that, but I desperately wanted the kiss he obviously desired. When we separated, Peter held my face close to his for a moment, staring into my eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I won’t stop loving you.”

I cleared my throat. I knew that if I spoke immediately, I would sound gruff. Throaty. Too warm.

“You taste like whiskey,” I said softly, pulling away gently.

Peter groaned and let go of my head, his arms falling to either side of him on the sofa. He was so annoyed. I didn’t blame him. I rose from my bent position and headed back to the hallway, intending to go to my room. To put space between Peter and me. When I laid my hand on the light switch, I looked over my shoulder at my husband on the sofa, drunk and annoyed. It didn’t make me feel differently about it, seeing him in that state. Drunk. Annoyed with me.

“I love you, too, Peter,” I said.

Then I flipped the lights off, leaving the room to the soft glow of the lights of Minneapolis beyond the windows. And I went to bed.

God Had Butterfingers

Peter was still asleep the following morning, curled up in a tight ball on his side with the blanket wrapped around him. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I somehow managed to make a pot of coffee without waking him. The sound of the beans grinding didn’t even rouse him. Of course, he had shown up on my doorstep drunk, demanding I come home with him, and unreasonable for a good part of his visit. I shouldn’t have cared if I woke him from his drunken slumber. For some reason, I did.

I knew that reason. Anyone with half a brain would have known the reason. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about so early in the morning.

With a fresh cup of coffee to start my Saturday, along with a plate containing a bagel I had toasted and spread liberally with cream cheese, I slunk back down the hallway towards my room. Taking up the seat at my desk, I pulled out the notebook in which I’d last written and flipped to my last stopping point.

I sipped my coffee and ate the bagel slowly as I read over the pages I’d last written. I’d started in one notebook a month before, and I was already halfway through another. With no idea what I was writing, where it would lead, or what the point was, I’d written a lot of words. It was as I’d done when I was a teenager with so many things going on in my head that I had to get them out of me somehow. Sipping my coffee, eating my breakfast, and reading what I’d last written took me back to that time.

Except now, my life was peaceful. Quiet. My days were not filled with xenophobia or homophobia or illness, sickness, and death. I wasn’t worried about where my next meal would be coming from. There was chicken thawing in the refrigerator for a lazy Saturday lunch. Later, I planned to go to La Croûte and pick out something for dessert after dinner. Maybe something to nibble on while I watched a movie before bed. I’d be curled up with a warm blanket on my comfortable, yet reasonably priced, sofa, watching a movie on my television that I hadn’t bought from a neighbor who was moving.