The Words

Evenings Alone

Like the flip of a switch, Summer came to an end, and, as she'd warned, my wife was rarely home, and I was the one to find myself with a lot of time on my hands. Her classes and labs began the last week of August, and most evenings, she didn't return until quite late. Once I'd showered and microwaved something quick to eat, it was generally another four to five hours before I would hear our apartment door open and her footsteps climbing the stairs with their slow exhausted cadence. I had no way of knowing what time that would be, and she insisted that was impossible for her to predict. We argued about that. Our first, since my insisting that she look in the mirror and tell me what faults she found with her body and the act of sexual contrition of all acts of sexual contrition that followed.

"Why can't you study at home?"

"There are things I can't do at home. Either I need to study material I can't remove from the library, or I need to use a microscope to study slides, and I'm sure you don't want me bringing Fred home. In addition to this, we both know that we'll end up in bed all evening, which I miss so badly, except that I'd never get any work done."

"Who the hell is Fred!"

"Sorry. Please don't be jealous," she asked with a chuckle. "Fred is the cadaver I share with several of my fellow first-year medical students." After her little joke about being home late because of Fred, which had me panicked, came an act of sexual contrition, which nearly caused my heart to stop.

Even if I didn't need to worry about Fred, I worried. I didn't know who specifically concerned me, but he had to be out there somewhere, and medical school seemed as good a place as any to find him lurking.

How did I spend those hours waiting to hear her key in the lock of our apartment door? Mostly, just that: Waiting and watching the clock. I would play my guitar and work on some software. Then I waited some more. Being bored and horny, I considered masturbating but was afraid she'd walk in the door wanting sex the instant I came.

Until she'd started back to school, I didn't realize that she'd been tracking our sexual activity. She'd discussed us having sex at least once a day our first year of marriage. Wouldn't that be something? How many couples could claim that? And, when I thought back, we hadn't skipped even the days when she had her period. She asked if I'd mind, threw a towel on the bed, and we made love in the shower again when we'd finished. Only, no cunnilingus, she'd insisted, and I hadn't argued.

Some nights when she came home later than usual and was exceptionally exhausted, she would slide into bed naked, scooting back until her flesh found mine. The warmth of her bare flesh immediately aroused me, which was her intention. She was asleep the instant we finished, as I was to discover, occasionally before then, at least before I had. I wasn't aware the first time that she'd fallen asleep during the act because she'd continued to make soft sounds of pleasure, but when I told her Good Night and that I loved her, there'd been no response, and she had always murmured the same in return with a pleased purr before as she'd drifted off. I apologized the following evening. If I'd known, I'd never have continued. That seemed wrong.

"No," she insisted, after a moment's thought, "I'd prefer to share the experience, but I don't want you to stop either. That's not fair to you. And I don't want us to skip any days. So, please, promise you won't stop."

I asked how she'd know, and she looked at me like I was stupid. So, from then on, as I promised, I didn't stop until I filled her, then kissed her softly between her shoulder blades, trying not to wake her. We slept with me spooned against her back. On weekdays, she'd already be gone when I woke in the morning, the spot where she'd slept already absent of her warmth, just her lingering scent on her pillow and the sheets.