Love Me Tender
by 
LMJT
|
Posted: Saturday, October 22, 2011 Word Count: 488 |
Love Me Tender
She stirs from sleep, waking to the whistle of the kettle and the low murmur of the radio: the sounds of their Saturday mornings.
She closes her eyes and savours the moment: the warmth of the duvet, the scent of fresh coffee, the security that there is a man who loves her less than 20 feet away; a man who has shown her nothing but love.
Downstairs, she finds him dressed in the tartan dressing gown she gave him last Christmas. He’s unshaven, his stubble peppered with a silver-grey. He’s as attractive now as he’s always been, she thinks. More, maybe. Probably.
He kisses her, his lips lingering on hers for just long enough to make her feel young again.
She will be 52 this year, she reflects. 52. And yet this feels like first love.
He gestures to the table. ‘It’ll only be a moment,’ he says, turning back to breakfast: salmon and scrambled eggs, her favourite.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she says, looking out of the French windows at a cloudless, bright blue sky. It is the beginning of November and the windows glisten with the first frost of winter.
‘We could go for a walk,’ he says.
She doesn’t reply. He knows she can’t stay. He’s always known she can’t stay. Instead, she does something practical; something useful, as she’s done all her life.
As usual, the table is covered with islands of unopened mail and sections from the Saturday papers. She quickly shuffles them into some sort of order and moves them from the table.
They sit down and he pours coffee, raising his cup.
‘What are we toasting?’ she asks, smiling at this fragile, ephemeral moment.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember,’ he says.
She shakes her head, then panics that she’s forgotten his birthday. That’s it, she thinks. That’s what we’re celebrating. I’ve forgotten his birthday.
An apology is on the tip of her tongue when he says, ‘This is our seven year anniversary.’
She blinks, surprised. ‘Seven years?’
He nods. ‘2004. Don’t tell me you can’t remember,’ he says again, teasing.
‘Of course I remember,’ she says. ‘I just didn't think-,’
She stops herself. What didn't she think? That time shared so effortlessly could pass so quickly? That all the years until now could feel wasted in comparison?
‘Hannah,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’
She'crying now, tears rolling slowly down her face. She wipes them away with the back of her hand. As she does so, she notices her wedding ring for the first time this weekend.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn't want to ruin the moment. I’m just happy, that’s all.’ She looks at him - his etched brow, his soft smile. ‘I’m so happy, Martin.’
He rests his warm hand against her cold cheek and she wishes that her husband possessed such tenderness.
She wishes once again that this was the man she went home to.
She stirs from sleep, waking to the whistle of the kettle and the low murmur of the radio: the sounds of their Saturday mornings.
She closes her eyes and savours the moment: the warmth of the duvet, the scent of fresh coffee, the security that there is a man who loves her less than 20 feet away; a man who has shown her nothing but love.
Downstairs, she finds him dressed in the tartan dressing gown she gave him last Christmas. He’s unshaven, his stubble peppered with a silver-grey. He’s as attractive now as he’s always been, she thinks. More, maybe. Probably.
He kisses her, his lips lingering on hers for just long enough to make her feel young again.
She will be 52 this year, she reflects. 52. And yet this feels like first love.
He gestures to the table. ‘It’ll only be a moment,’ he says, turning back to breakfast: salmon and scrambled eggs, her favourite.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she says, looking out of the French windows at a cloudless, bright blue sky. It is the beginning of November and the windows glisten with the first frost of winter.
‘We could go for a walk,’ he says.
She doesn’t reply. He knows she can’t stay. He’s always known she can’t stay. Instead, she does something practical; something useful, as she’s done all her life.
As usual, the table is covered with islands of unopened mail and sections from the Saturday papers. She quickly shuffles them into some sort of order and moves them from the table.
They sit down and he pours coffee, raising his cup.
‘What are we toasting?’ she asks, smiling at this fragile, ephemeral moment.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember,’ he says.
She shakes her head, then panics that she’s forgotten his birthday. That’s it, she thinks. That’s what we’re celebrating. I’ve forgotten his birthday.
An apology is on the tip of her tongue when he says, ‘This is our seven year anniversary.’
She blinks, surprised. ‘Seven years?’
He nods. ‘2004. Don’t tell me you can’t remember,’ he says again, teasing.
‘Of course I remember,’ she says. ‘I just didn't think-,’
She stops herself. What didn't she think? That time shared so effortlessly could pass so quickly? That all the years until now could feel wasted in comparison?
‘Hannah,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’
She'crying now, tears rolling slowly down her face. She wipes them away with the back of her hand. As she does so, she notices her wedding ring for the first time this weekend.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn't want to ruin the moment. I’m just happy, that’s all.’ She looks at him - his etched brow, his soft smile. ‘I’m so happy, Martin.’
He rests his warm hand against her cold cheek and she wishes that her husband possessed such tenderness.
She wishes once again that this was the man she went home to.