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If
only I loved my husband as much as he loved me.
It
was early in the morning, the crack of dawn actually. The only people awake at
this time were old people that woke up before sunrise, and then there was me.
On the queen sized bed that stood in the middle of the bedroom. My body slumped
across it, posing as if I was practicing gaining my inner chi. My husband laid
beside me with his arms folded behind his head, firmly positioned on his back.
I wasn’t as committed to my sleeping position. I had spent the last five
minutes twisting and turning, trying to get into a comfortable spot. I needed
to get up, but I wanted to spend a few more minutes wrapped around my husband’s
masculine frame. Sweat trickled down the sides of my brow as I tossed the
covers around. Still he doesn’t move.
The
room is silent. My thoughts drowning me, thinking back to last night. How in
love we appeared to be with each other. In front of all our friends and family
smiles spread our cheeks high for the entire night. As I start to drift the
noise of the ceiling fan whirling above my head catches my attention. It spins
on high. The cool air mixes with the warm air from outside. It drowns out the
smells of musk. Our scents have mixed together and settled in on the soft
cotton bed sheets. I also can smell the liquor from last night seeping from our
pores. The humidity is thick, but the slight breeze blowing from outside that
pulls some of the air out of the room.
We were in those months where it
wasn’t quite summer and fall hadn’t begun yet. And true to his southern
upbringing my husband didn’t believe in cutting the air condition on until the
temperature outside hit a certain number. It was hot but with the bedroom
windows up and the fan going it was manageable. My hair was already a wild,
curly mess after last night so I knew a high messy bun was going to be my
choice of style for today.
I
moan. I stretch. I touch my husband’s head. I run my slender fingers through
his thick dark curls and smile. I love my husband, I truly do. Some days I felt
like it wasn’t enough. I didn’t grow up in the best home for learning to love
someone. This marriage was my focal point of gaining the essentials on what a
woman was supposed to give a man outside of her body. Him on the other hand
came to me with the knowledge already implanted. His parents had been married
for almost thirty years. He was raised in the church. He was given good morals
at a young age. He knew the depths of love to provide to a woman and how to
understand. My husband was kindhearted and never hurt a soul. Or he never
intended to. There were times during our earlier years of dating throughout
college where I ended up with a bruised heart, but he always made it right. He
had given me praise telling me I was the first woman that he ever wanted to do
right by. So no matter how many times he did wrong something in him compelled
him to make it right.
Due
to his childhood he had his set ways of doing things. He had his way of loving
me. Implanted were rules on how to love a woman, how to care and how to nurture
for a woman. The dos and don’ts of love were rooted and I was the fertilizer to
encourage it to grow and bloom. His father had taught him that the man was the
leader of the household, the provider. The man worked and made sure that the
woman didn’t want for anything. I was raised to care for myself and care for a
man in a way that made me feel like I was a slave. I turned to books and
education to break that unhealthy cycle. Here I was years later trying to
balance that beam that weighed heavy.
He
didn’t compromise or bend.
He
was firm.
He
loves me.
I
feel sometimes that his love is too much. I get swept up in it and it
overwhelms me. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t make me feel
special. That he didn’t wrap those big arms around me and make all of my
worries go away. There wasn’t a moment where he didn’t make sure that I was
keeping him first. He took care of everything that a man should take care of
within the household. It was a daily struggle for me to allow him to do so.
Last
night was no different. Our fourth year of marriage, on the third Thursday of
September, we celebrated with friends and family. I was beautiful to him last
night. He made sure to tell me numerous times. As we sat amongst others he made
sure to make me his priority. His hand never left mine. His almond shaped eyes
always stayed peering into mine. His full lips parted before I could separate
mine. With every memory that was offered about us meeting, dating and entering
into our union he made sure to squeeze my hand tight. I admired him for his
courage. Whenever there was a doubt in anyone’s mind he was the force that was
determined to keep this thing going.
I
am blessed to have him.
Over
chatter, glasses clinking from toast, and jokes being traded amongst our table
my husband glorified me. Highlighted me for being the love his life. He held my
hand tight and lifted my hand every time someone mentioned the size of my ring.
He was proud to show me off. He was proud to have proven that we could make it
as long as we have, five whole years together. He was sure to show his gorgeous
smile as he opened up to our family and friends how lucky he was that I had
given him so many chances.
So
many chances to get it right.
Husband
and wife.
His
cell phone rings. Jerks my attention. I roll over him and lean over to the other
side of the bed. On a wooden nightstand lies his phone. On the third ring I
answer. Caller ID unknown and a series of ten digits radiate on the screen.
“Hello?”
My
voice is thick. Harsh. I sound groggy.
CLICK!
There
is no answer from the other line. Instead the person has disconnected. I think
it is a client. I decide to try the number back and plan on taking a message
for my husband. Whoever the person is answers on the fourth ring.
“Sweetie”
a woman’s voice chimes through the phone.
Her
voice carries the sound of angels compared to my previous groggy hello. After a
few failed attempts to clear my throat, I speak.
“Hello?
Who is this?”
There
is no answer. I only hear my heavy breathing. I am now sitting up with the
phone pinned to my ear.
“Um..
I think I have the wrong number.”
“Im
sure”
I
disconnect the line. I take my free hand, my left hand, and the hand that
housed the rock that my husband used to stamp me as his. I take that hand and
dig my fingers in to my scalp. With a swift back and forth motion I shake the
loose hair that rests on top of head. My curls shake and resemble tree leaves
shaking in the wind. I purse my full lips together and they are chapped. I lick
them with my thick tongue. I am thirsty. Dehydrated from a night of drinking
and celebrating. I can still taste my husband. I had wanted to slip under the
covers and place my head in my husband’s lap. I had wanted his moans to fill
our bedroom as they had done the night before. There was this trick that I
always kept in tow on special occasions, I wanted to be his magician this
morning. All the things that I had wanted to do to him.
“Who
was that?”
He
speaks. The king of the jungle with hair like wool moves. His hands firmly grip
my exposed thighs, he squeezes. His hands trail up from my legs to my stomach.
This is where he rests. He moves slowly but demanding as he places his head in
my lap. I place my free hand, the other still gripping his cell phone, on his
curly head. It had been his pride and joy for the past few months. He was a
black man that had been oppressed so many years by “the man” and now that he
was free he was embracing his roots, according to him. I didn’t care one bit, I
just wanted him to cut this mess.
I
grunt. “Wrong number.” I didn’t believe the words even as they left my lips.
Without
warning he reaches up and grabs his phone. “Could’ve been a client. They
probably weren’t expecting a woman to answer the phone.”
I
huff. “Mhm.” Moving swiftly, I’m up and out of bed. I head to bathroom to watch
the scent of my husband off of me. If you knew my husband you would know there
were so many layers to him. The same man that I made love to last night was not
the same man that was upset and pouting because I slipped my card out for the
bill, last night, when it came. I knew his financial situation and I didn’t
want to put him on the spot. So being the woman that I was and all the extra
hours that I was working I could afford to treat my husband to an anniversary
dinner. If we were alone it would have been fine, but at a table with our
friends, to him, it was an issue.
“A
man has to be a man Joan. I should be treating you.”
Larry
spoke those words to me last night. Being the loving wife that I was I wouldn’t
dare remind my charming husband that he was no longer was employed at his fancy
web designer job. Although he pretended to get up a few mornings and go into
the office until I caught him red handed. He had quit. Walked off his job, tie
in hand, determined to do something better with his time and skills. He had
spent the last two years at an imaging firm building web pages for clients that
ordered caviar as a side dish. Larry was a real down to earth brotha and he
wanted to keep his talents in the community, primarily working with black owned
businesses.
Now
every workday, he sat in our second bedroom, in front of his computer all day
clicking and typing. Still no checks were coming in the way they were
previously. That resulted with me picking up extra duties at work and somehow I
managed to get promoted. Ever since that promotion Larry had become someone I
didn’t know. He was mean at times. He said things that made me question if this
was the same man that asked me to be his wife two years ago. Now everything was
about him being the man of the house and providing. He constantly stated how
disappointed his father would be if he knew the details of our marriage.
I
spent my days busting my butt to operate above my skill level and my nights
making my man feel like he was still the king in this jungle. He wasn’t. At
times I envied him for being so selfish. Quitting his job without asking me how
I felt about it. After all the sacrifices I was making he only saw how busy I
was and how much time I spent working. My husband was selfish, irresponsible
and taking advantage of me. Some nights he wouldn’t even touch me. Other nights
he wouldn’t even come to bed. Just sit in front of that computer.
And
now some woman was calling for him.
If
only my husband loved me as much as I loved him.
