Thursday, August 18, 2016
T
rey's House
28 weeks...
11:21 am
Trey peppered kisses all over her face, smiling when she groaned and rolled over, facing away from him. On a mission, he pressed closer to her, taking her lips in a soft kiss, and before he knew it, she was responding.
He pulled away then, pressing his lips to her neck, looking up when she sighed, rolling onto her back. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a lazy smile. "I could get used to this."
Trey snorted, pulling her to himself. She came willingly, snuggling into his side as much as she could with the bump in the way. "Good morning love."
"Good morning," she replied, yawning right after. Then she looked up, smiling. "You seem to be in a good mood."
She knew why he was excited; she just wanted to hear him say it. Looking down at her, he answered, "Of course. Today marks four years of being together as a married couple—"
She laughed a little. "Trey, we're divorced. So legally, we aren't together as a married couple anymore."
He looked at her and she held his gaze till he gave up with a sigh. "I guess I should say four years as a couple." Then he rounded on her again. "But you know I still see you as my wife."
"I do," she replied.
"Good," he murmured, almost in relief. "So, today, I plan on spoiling you rotten. Hopefully, Roberta doesn't have my head for this."
She laughed as he pulled away, getting off the bed. "Where are you going?"
He got to her side, offering a hand. "Helping you off the bed."
"But I want to sleep a little longer," she murmured. "But I was tired last night because of Sam's baby shower," she complained, snuggling deeper into the pillow. Not that she would have traded it for anything—even the fact that she'd been in a wheelchair hadn't reduced her joy.
(The others had all moved back out to their places of residence.)
"I know, and because of that, I prepared a warm bath for you—Roberta said not hot ones as increased temperature isn't good for the babies," he replied patiently. "But neither is cold, and you wouldn't want it to go cold, would you?"
She was silent for a moment, then, "I guess not." She pushed up into a seating position.
He offered his hand again and she took it this time without complaint. He opened the door to the bathroom, allowing her entry first.
She froze, then took a few tentative steps forward towards the bath. "Trey," she whispered, turning to look at him then back at the bath. "You did this for me?"
Seeing her eyes suspiciously wet, he closed the door to the bathroom and stepped closer, hugging her from behind. "Yes," then he kissed her jaw, "and you deserve this and more."
Then he pulled back, unzipping her dress. "I had to use lavender bath oil because it has a gentle scent and won't offend your sensitive nose or nauseate you."
She turned to him, blinking away the tears. "I love you; you know that?" He smiled down at her, reaching up to brush her hair back. "Seriously. This is so thoughtful—the fact that you took my body's changes into consideration and gave me this, complete with — what are those?" She turned to the bath, taking a closer look at the floating red... things.
"Little heart-shaped petals," he replied, scratching the back of his neck. "I'd wanted the florists to cut out rose petals into hearts but rose has a quite potent smell. I chose the next alternative — artificial petals with lavender sprayed on."
She turned to him and drew up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. "Thank you anyway. I appreciate the gesture, and I certainly feel loved."
"Exactly what I was aiming at." Pressing another kiss to her lips, he drew back. "Get in there and I'll bring you a change of clothes. Come downstairs when you're done, hm?"
"Okay." He gave her one more kiss, then left.
*
12:23 pm...
After the wonderful bath, she stepped out and dried off, finding the dress Trey had picked out on a hanger behind the connecting door.
After putting it on, she stepped through the connecting door into her old closet and ran a comb through her hair to untangle it, then scooped it up in a loose bun so it could air dry.
When she moved to the bathroom to deposit the towel she'd used for her hair, she found a note on the floor behind the connecting door, and realized he must have attached it to the dress. She squatted, with a bit of a difficulty, and picked it up, huffing out a breath when she straightened.
She stepped through the main door leading into the bedroom and closed it, leaning on it as she read the contents of the letter.
She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue off Trey's desk, then clutching the note to her chest, she stepped out of their room, startled when a balloon smacked her right in the face.
She pushed it back, smiling to herself when she saw an arrow on it pointing to the opposite side. Looking straight ahead, she saw a hot pink sticky note.
Bunching her dress up with the same hand that held the letter, she moved towards the door of the room that had been hers for a time and pulled off the note, the smile never leaving her face.
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
Poetry.
Trey loved anything literary, and poetry was one of the things she'd never tire of him using. Admittedly, his own constructed poems were terrible, but she loved him anyway.
As soon as she took the curve towards the stairs, another sticky note stared her in the face. Without hesitating, she pulled it off to read.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body.
Adding it to the hand that held the letter and the first sticky note, she pulled up the dress, carefully placing her steps with her hand on the railing for support.
She made it downstairs in one piece, and when she caught the aroma of food, she smiled even wider, going in that direction. That is, until she saw a bright red on the wall from the corner of her eye—another sticky note. Backtracking, she pulled the note off the wall.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
She hurried into the kitchen then, finding Trey at the stove with his back to the door. Going past the island, she hugged him tight, smiling when his chest rumbled with laughter.
"I take it you've seen the notes?" he asked, continuing with breakfast even as she held onto him.
"Yes," she said brightly, pulling away. "You definitely didn't write these because you're a bad poet." He threw his head back and laughed, then went to the sink to wash his hands.
She moved to settle on a stool behind the counter on the opposite side of Trey. "Did I succeed in making you smile?" He asked, looking down at her with a smile of his own.
"You know you did," she replied, unable to wipe the smile off her face. He pumped a fist into the air and returned to the stove. "Who wrote them?"
"Pablo Neruda," he answered, and knowing there was more to come, she stayed quiet because she loved seeing him get passionate about the things he loved.
"His real name was Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, and he was born in Chile on July 12, 1904. His family did not approve of him having a career as a poet, which is why he used the pseudonym Pablo Neruda, which he chose out of memory of the Czechoslovak poet Jan Neruda.
"He started writing around the age of ten, and his first piece of poetry was published at the age of thirteen by a local newspaper, La Manana.
"His compilation of poems, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, was published in 1924 and that work helped him become known as an important Chilean poet.
"With this success, Neruda ended his formal education to pursue his love of writing poetry. He is said to be the greatest poet of his lifetime who wrote in Spanish." He lifted his head to look her in the eyes as he recited,
"'I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.' "
She felt her cheeks go hot and shook her head to clear it, watching as he went back to finishing their breakfast—lunch, more like.
"How are you able to store all that in your head? And you remember the dates, the years, the titles. . . whole poems?" Then she pouted. "That's unfair. You're literally perfect."
He reached across the kitchen island to kiss her nose. "I'm not perfect; I just have a good memory. Also, I read a lot, and reading the same thing more than once makes it easy for it to stick, you know?"
"Yeah."
"Right," he drawled in a dry voice. "Says the person who won't be caught dead reading."
"Hey! That's not very nice."
"Just the facts." He dished out the food onto plates, placing them on the island between them—gluten free breakfast burrito with eggs, bell peppers, mushrooms & shredded cheese. "Dig in. After this, we've got some scrapbooking to do. You're the more creative one after all."
*
2:26 pm...
Coming towards the stairs, he almost collided into Lexi who was climbing up with a board(?) behind her. "I was looking for you," he said finally, when he realized she had no intention of letting him see what it was, and unless he wanted them both to fall down the stairs, he wasn't going to push it.
"Why?"
"I want to give you something before you leave for the makeover and relaxation with the girls," he murmured, and he saw the 'board' she held was wrapped. When she nodded slowly, he asked, "Were you going to do something?"
"No," she replied with a smile, shaking her head. "I also got you something. I was just coming to give it to you."
"Come on then," he said, turning and heading towards their room. He held the door open for her to come through with her package, then closed the door, entering his closet to get his gift.
"Alright, show me what you got me first," Trey said, setting his box on the bed. "I actually thought you'd forgotten it was our anniversary with everything that's going on."
She only smiled. "Ready?" At his nod, she shoved the board into his hands, drawing back to chew on her lips. "Unwrap it."
He tore the wrapping paper off, eyes widening when he saw what it was. Before he could say anything, she was rambling. "If it's not perfect, it's because I haven't done it in a long time. It took a few tries to get it right and I definitely hope you like it. If you don't, well, don't tell me. I don't think—"
"Lexi," he cut in with an amused smile. She looked at him wide-eyed, resembling a deer in headlights. "I love it. I wasn't expecting it because you haven't gone to the studio since you lost your parents and our first child. I'm just pleasantly surprised. Thank you."
She released a deep breath and smiled shakily. "I'm glad."
Trey returned his attention to the work of art on the canvas in front of him. He remembered the picture she'd used. It was their first date—after they'd gotten married and after they'd lost their child. They'd been so caught up in each other and their relatively new feelings that they hadn't seen the pap take it.
Lexi had requested for it and framed it, keeping it on her side of the bed, and he had removed it when he'd kicked her out, thinking he'd been living a lie. She had captured all the emotions in the painting, a newly budding love, anxiety, pain, grief, but at the same time, happiness.
"Behind it, I managed to draw a map of Hampstead, North London and Chicago—where I lived all my life, and where we first met." Trey had turned by then, noting the three distinct maps.
"I have marked the places where we were together and joined them with the red rope to show you the journey we've made to get to this point. It can be our scrapbook's reference."
Setting the painting down on the floor and letting it lean on the side of the bed, he went closer, scooping her in a hug. They stayed locked in each other's arms, silent till Lexi broke it.
"Are you crying?" She pulled away so she could take a look at him and saw she'd been right. "Trey. . ." she trailed off at a loss for words. Cupping both sides of his face, she lifted his head and looked him in the eye. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry."
He laughed suddenly, lifting a hand to wipe the tears off his face. "They're just happy tears." Then he lowered his head and kissed her, short but sweet. "Thank you."
While working on wiping the rest of the tears, he reached behind him and grabbed the box, handing it over. "Your turn. Not going to beat yours but," he shrugged, "I tried."
When she opened it, she took out the red book and flipped it open, laughing at the stick figure drawings. "No offense, but what are these supposed to be?"
"Us," he said with a little frown, as if it should've been obvious. "It's a little similar to your mapping. In that, I illustrated, along with storytelling, how we started out and whatever we've been through till now. Our journey."
He clasped her hand, and squeezing, he added, "It's a love book. Our love book. But since I was the one writing, I could only write about our journey and about you. I left space though; in case you'd want to fill it with things about me. . ."
"I would love to! Thank you so much!" With a quick hug, she returned to perusing the contents of the book which had pictures she didn't know he'd taken of her. Right then, she knew the stolen moments she'd taken pictures of and with Trey would go right in there. Closing the book, she clutched it to her chest, "I love this."
He pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead and stood, grabbing his painting. "I think this will fit at the new house; don't you think? With all the glass walls, we can hang it such that both the front and back can be seen."
"Good idea," she agreed. When she tried standing up, Trey stopped her with a shake of his head.
"Use this time to take a nap. You're still pregnant, remember?" She rolled her eyes at that but acquiesced. "You have less than an hour before the girls come and whisk you away, and I'd rather you spent that time resting."
"Nap with me?" She made sad puppy eyes at him, and he found himself giving in with a sigh.
"Fine."
A/N: Hello everyone! Yes, 18th August is their anniversary and I don't know crap about poetry. All I had to do was ask Google, and since I love the language Spanish, I chose Pablo Neruda just because I could. I didn't do the translation. I found them on this site which I'll cite right here 👇
Pablo Neruda. "One Hundred Love Sonnets." Family Friend Poems, 2006. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/one-hundred-love-sonnets-by-pablo-neruda
Also, the words on that first love letter aren't off my head. All credits go to Noah Schnacky and they were picked from his song "I'm Not Going Anywhere". Listen to it if you want to.
Until next time... 🏃♀️💨