Emery [bxb]

138

I wake up at the ass-crack of dawn like I always do. Emery's not in, which worries me until I read the note on the coffee carafe. Out shopping. Love you, sleepyhead - E.

I head into the bathroom to freshen up. Partway through shaving, I hear him come home with groceries.

"Got that amazing creamy Gouda cheese from the Netherlands," he's calling out.

He comes into the bathroom.

"Hey."

"Hey," I smile warmly, slapping his cheek gently with a dollop of shaving cream.

Laughing, he runs off to his violin. As I listen to him play, I feel an odd ache in my belly, like I need to throw up but nothing will come out. I watch him wordlessly from the bathroom sink. I regard the sheet music over his shoulder, four or five sharps in the signature, notes crawling up and down and more often off the staff than on it. The sort of awe I feel when I listen to him play is...unlike anything else I've ever experienced. My throat closes up and I can't speak. I end up nicking myself with the blade.

We eat breakfast off the same plate like always, Emery complaining about the skin peeling off his left-hand fingertips, and then I drive us to work.