A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || July 21, 2006 || 10:42 pm

Just another night.

It’s nearly midnight on Friday night, and here I sit, Dukes of Hazzard on the telly and Irish Coffee in my cup.

I never drink coffee at night, really. Sometimes things change, if just for a little bit.

Enos is still a jackass. Some things invariably never, ever change. There is both comfort and boredom in that.

We had a late dinner tonight. Mathias and I knocked around the neighboring town for most of the late afternoon and early evening. Even at the wee age of seven, he enjoys things of old and so he will patiently crawl through antiques shoppes and downhome art galleries with me. We both find treasures in these places: I a cobalt bottle remarkably intact despite the generous crack overwhelming its side and he an old photo button that he finds fascinating because “That man has a neat face, momma.”

“That is amazing!” he exclaimed after our last stop, “When we went in there, it was bright daylight, and now it is soft night.” We split a soda as we crawled the nighttime miles to our house.

Maxim was tired and frustrated when we got home. It is easy to get arrive at such a state when dealing with the sheer volume of people and numbers that he does every day. He is a good boss to have, but I wonder if they know it. Some days I want to roll over and tell him, “You stay in bed. I will drive all over Hell’s Half-Acre so that you don’t have to. At each stop, I will make an example out of the loosest cannon there by wrapping my terrific long fingers about their neck and shaking violently yet precisely. I will not kill, but will walk up on the doorstep of it, and by the time I am finished with Each Prime Example, the whole of the staff at that locale will bear the demeanor of little mewling lambs. Henceforward they will be happy to serve you with stellar efficiency and without complaint. Then I will move on to the next location and start over again. It will be a day of legend in your company, but only because I will wear my favorite Replacements tee shirt and matching orange tennyshoos while commanding they stop all the monkeyassing around.”

I find that when I have a hard day, exfoliation is key. This is especially true when the days have been as ungodly humid and blisteringly hot as they’ve been this week. I suggested this to Maxim. He is a boy, and boys don’t have a true grasp on the machinations of effective exfoliating, so I volunteered to help him by standing at the back of the shower and giving a demonstration. Hands-on action is key is many circumstances. We both emerged with a beautiful glow and commenced to make dinner together.

I watched us from outside myself as we danced gently around one another in the kitchen doing prep work and talking. I wore a tank top and panties and bare feet; he wore jeans and naked chest and feet to match mine. This is my favorite look on a man: He will never be so beautiful as he is when wearing jeans and jeans alone. Something about the sight of it enchants girlbeings and a fellow could just about get away with murder wearing naught but denim pants. Our feet padded quiet on the wide, cool black tiles. The smells of summer –cabbage and yellow squash and juicy tomatoes and crisp cucumbers and melon that bursts at the touch of a knife because it is so ready and willing to proffer up sweetness to you– permeate the kitchen, saturating even the rough brick of the walls and wafting on up to our plank ceiling.

There are murmurs and touches as we pass one another, as we reach around and under for bowls, utensils, spices. We have a relationship of deep comfort and steady passion that peaks in waves that we can sometimes hardly stand and I am still overwhelmed by this after eight years of marriage. There are a little over twelve years between us: Six months as co-workers and acquaintances, three and a half years as dear friends and beer buddies (ten months of which found us as band mates, crammed into the odd vehicle or motel room or crusty bar), six months as lovers and the remaining time as spouses, furthering our friendship and feelings of lust and tenderness toward one another. How fortunate we are!

I’ve seen this man have a crippling panic attack and I’ve seen him boldly stand eyeball-to-eyeball with my insane ex-husband and explain in measured, manly tones how I will no longer be bullied in my own home. I’ve watched him weep over a friend’s addiction and give a wad of cash and a bag of hamburgers to a dirty, tired and embarrassed little boy whose momma was too shiftless to work. I’ve seen him spend our own last dollar on yet another bass that was not needed. I’ve yelled at him and caressed him, I’ve had his baby and I’ve listened to him ask, “How does this look?” every damned morning for well over three-thousand days (“My GOD, Maxim, I bought that for you, why are you even asking??”). I’ve put up with his bossy grandmother and he tolerates my fix-it daddy. He nursed me through recovery from a horrible accident and subsequent surgery; my children told me that he confessed to them how very blessed they all were that I was still here and not being lowered into the ground. He never once complained through the long hours of caring for me and the extra hours he had to put in at work to make up for some of my lost income.

We sat at our table tonight, the one under the huge dining room chandelier, the one that seats nine, the first really nice piece of furniture we acquired together. We sat there with our young son between us (the other three children are developing lives of their own, it seems), a veritable bounty of nature’s freshest in front of us, clasped hands and thanked God for allowing us the luxury of one another and the comfort of our home and the blessings that are folded into our lives. Maxim brushed his gorgeous full lips across the back of my hand, and my heart leapt for what may have been the hundred-thousandth time, thighs and heart warming simultaneously.

3 worked it out »

  1. CNL 7.22.2006

    girl, sometimes you wreck me.

    I mean that in a good way.

    I’m going to bury my face in Husband’s pillow now.

     
  2. chris robinson 7.23.2006

    Damn! That’s the way I want to be loved, and I didn’t really understand this until just now.

     
  3. c 7.25.2006

    /cry

     

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