Oh blog me a blog,

sing me a song, tell me a tale……..

We were living in a small house on a quiet street with old trees.  There was a secluded garden in the back—flowers and tomatoes.  I was there, working, when you arrived.  My heart soared to see you home.  Following behind you were two figures—my insides lurched.  The look in your eyes told me you regretted not telling me before, but I wasn’t sure how to read your easy way with them.  A wife, a son.  I smiled and nodded, walking in a daze up the stairs.  I closed and locked a door, walked on, then closed and locked a beautiful set of double doors—french doors.  My clothes slid from my body and I stepped into a large bath, recessed in the floor, with a skylight overhead.  Everything was quiet around me but my heart.  I sank into the water, in my underwear.  Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back against the edge of the tub, and listened to your son talk to me. When I opened them again, you stood there, no—crouched—at the far end of the tub, your arms resting on your knees, your soft dark eyes boring into me.  The concern on your face melted my worries and they drifted away in the tub full of bubbles.  I smiled at you and smiled back.  Then I woke up.  But I think that if I could have regained that particular thread of sleep, I would have seen you remind your son that his mother was waiting. You would have held my gaze until several doors had closed and a car had started, and receded.  Then, you would have stepped into the tub, clothed.