Diary of a Marriage
These Are the Letters Written Between My Legs
January 10th, 2009
8:37 a.m.
Well, it's a cold dance we dance this morning. You are up at the crack of dawn and the bed is empty even before you leave. I pretend to sleep so I can revel in the delicious morning ritual I know will be ending soon. I hear you brew coffee, shower, talk to the dog. I listen to the cadence of your foot steps on the kitchen floor, the rumble of garbage trucks, the shrieking sirens and disembodied voices of our neighbors outside our windows. I have my eyes closed, but I can see you slowly and quietly opening the dresser drawer for a clean white T-shirt and clean socks. I feel your satisfaction as you tightly lace up your boots for they are freshly polished. Then, I tense my body, my eyes still closed, for the last step in this morning ritual. The coffee pot sputters and you pour coffee, add sugar and milk, and almost tenderly leave it on the night table next to my sleeping head. Your hand lightly brushes my hair.
Last night, late, I woke up, the bed shaking and heaving and heard rather than saw you pleasuring yourself; your suppressed sighs, the frantic rhythm of your body and that's when I knew: It's over. Because you did not turn to me, and I realized you probably haven't been turning to me for a long long time. Then, unbidden, I remembered my purely sensual pleasure at the sight of you in clean white socks and clean white underwear, wearing nothing else but your slack-jawed smile, your wiry black hair. Then, I remembered the sight of you fresh and steaming from the shower, completely naked, impatiently wiping the fog from the bathroom mirror so you can shave; the black specks of hair you left behind on the bathroom sink, and on those mornings when you kissed me good bye, it was a real kiss, full and warm on my lips.
You turned to me often in bed at night and our good night kiss became passionate. Your right hand and then your right foot pulled down my underwear even as you slid my T-shirt over my head. I slid your underwear off, but insisted, always, that you keep your socks on. And your smile and then "Oh, baby" as you entered me. But that was ten years ago and events have transpired to tear us apart, events neither one of us could ever possibly predicted and its nobody's fault, and I'm not even angry. In fact, I'm grateful to a have a few more mornings listening to you; the familiar sounds of ritual, of a marriage, even as it is ending... gives me pleasure. And so when I hear the front door softly click open and then close, I open my eyes and drink my coffee.
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Author's Note
Originally published as a novella on Salon.com. Revisited to see if I could mine something new, the erotic story of a divorce.
Other stories by Lillian Ann Slugocki
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the jump from the first graf to 2nd is a jolt
all 3 grafs, cumulative = devastating
"written between my legs"--well, yes.
thanks, Gary, much appreciated.
Very fine story. It has a plangent quality that is haunting and a slow rhythm that is mesmerizing. Fav for me.
Dear Bill, thanks for the fav, I love plangent and haunting.
Love this. What's so interesting about this is when I first started reading the piece I thought the narrator was male. It made perfect sense that he might hear his wife masturbating. By the shaving part, I realized this was from the wife's POV. But the power of this piece, at least for me, is its universality. The pain and realization of dawning freedom that exists in that empty bed--- really got me. So well done. Good for you!
Speaking of erotic...those clean white socks and underwear are smokin' for me.
The unfurling of the end of a relationship, so well done LA.
Cherise and D'Arcy, thank you so much for comments, its so interestsing D'Arcy you thought it was male POV at first, that really sheds valuable light
Well, your mining paid off: you struck gold. You also dug up a whole ton of truth. Fave.
I can't stop thinking of this really short poem by Richard Brautigan, bless him. It goes like this (and I've screwed up the line breaks, I'm sure):
"It's so nice to wake up in the morning
and not have to tell someone you love them
when you don't love them
anymore."
It came out on a record, and there were about 10 people reading this people, each one giving it their own separate emphasis.
sorry... "reading this piece."
D'Arcy, the poem by Brautigan, uncanny.
Jack, thanks for the comment!
Sorry to come to this piece a bit late - but I'm glad I'm here, LA. Great detail - great sense of the moment. Good work.
Sam, thank you so much.
Just picked this out of your long list of treats. I love the immediacy of the detail, and how that contrasts with the long undoing of the relationship. Nicely contrasted there, really like this quite a lot. The details paint this morning and the whole routine so perfectly. I also like how it's not bitter - the matter of fact telling make it perhaps even sadder. I really dig your story-telling!!
Michelle, it's nice when someone gets it, thanks so much for your comment.
Just found this, and it is amazing. It felt like a sunny morning despite the realizations the narrator has come to. There is still a sense of camaraderie even in the disbanding. Beautiful.
My favorite lines: "I pretend to sleep so I can revel in the delicious morning ritual I know will be ending soon." & "I have my eyes closed, but I can see you slowly and quietly opening the dresser drawer for a clean white T-shirt and clean socks."
Dear Melanie:
Thank you so much for your comments, its great to get good feedback.
Like Melanie, I just found this and enjoyed every moment -- feels real. Sweet in its sadness, in the awareness of what's coming. Well done. Thank you.