.::dulcet blues::.
.::prologue::.
^
The memory of V starts with my husband’s infidelity.
An unusually hot autumn afternoon—roses came, and with it, a card. His message; his promise.
A bead of sweat falls along the curve of my neck, rolling down the arch of my spine, another from under my jaw, between my breasts. Despite the light material, three-fourths sleeve sweater clings to my skin, tightly. An anxious wind blows though the open window.
The memory of V starts with me discovering my husband’s infidelity.
I sit at the table. He isn’t home. Yet. He will be soon though. And it will begin. The truth behind the lies. The inquiries; the accusations. The guilt? The unraveling of a marriage.
The memory of V starts with my husband’s vigilantly constructed lies concerning his infidelity.
I shift awkwardly. My breath evens out with coaxing. The autumn breeze does nothing to my damp skin. The door opens, and I’m drawn to the sound. My heart beats erratically, frantically. It isn’t too late to stop it.
He walks in the kitchen, and I rise to meet him. His eyes flicker to the flowers — briefly —before they reach mine again. A question in them. I raise my chin a little higher. A diminutive, inner sign of defiance. He understands, deep inside. He smoothes out the jacket draped over his arm. It doesn’t need smoothing. It’s something to do with his hands. To erase her smell.
I clear my throat to speak. My voice dies. I try again; stand straighter.
“Make a pot of coffee,” I say, jerking my head in its direction.
The memory of V starts with my husband discovering my infidelity.