She’s sitting now; magazine on lilac knee length skirted lap, coffee by her side. Resting for the weekend, everything ready and waiting. Food shopped, favourites bought and stored. The magazine holds her for a while wrapped in slick paper and patter for ‘people like her’ ways, but she knows her world while overlapping in so many ways with those of that world, differs.

She’s waiting for Bob. Bob her man for so many years now who never fails to excite her with his coming home. Bob a huge bear of a man, large, bearded, tummied in the best way that only cuddly bears can be. His hands hold hers in never letting go strength; his hands have held hers through the operations that now she prefers to forget, giant hands holding hers and providing love in their tender grip. Bob comes home every weekend in two for a four-day break, and then every other month comes home for three weeks. Their love becomes concentrated, intense and survives the gaps that long distance trucking creates.

Maybe she was prepared for this by her childhood moving from airforce base to airforce base with her dad, another bear of a man, whose Bear tummy failed him three years ago now, by growing dogblack pancreatic cancer cells. She still can’t talk about this and Bob, wise man that he has grown, leads her hands silently to the graveside on his longer breaks. He holds her there in quietude until she ceases sobbing, places flowers in the vase and only then does he speak to tell of his own feelings for the remains of the man he too knew, now laying there in hush.

Coffee is finished, the magazine neat back in its rack. Upstairs comes a hum as she prepares the bedroom, covers back on the bed and pillows plumped. Bob will be tired and first will sleep for a couple of hours; she would prefer him to shower before but knows in this her wishes come second after his obvious fatigue. Still, she prepares his soap on a rope, his deodorant and favourite white fluffy towel. ‘Hotel Towel’ he called it after a fling weekend they’d had in a Hyatt, she’d searched for the longest time to find some just like it. Such was love for Bob, his happiness developed hers.

She’d prepared herself too, their times together were for them both, she’d found all her own favourite treats, had bathed long and slowly this morning in bath gelees exclusive, imported and expensive. She was almost complete.

A car sound came to her, she checked the window, he was here. She ran downstairs to catch him as he opened the door. He didn’t speak just picked her up, carried her upstairs, threw her onto the bed, stripped quickly down to his black fur and began tearing her clothes off. They fell into the bed. He mounted her, quickly, easily and soon their sounds mingled as both excited by their own and each others urgency came toward climax. His arms encircled her, squeezing, enfolding, creating her to be part of him; she could smell the roads, the sweetsweat of today and Copper that came from his chest hair. This is how she knew this would be, no disappointment, only joy in confirmation…

They came, her slowly at first, building toward surrender of self and creation of jointness and he noisily, need released in end of waiting and pleasure felt and remembered. After, they lay side by side as her breath slowed and his deepened into sleep. This was how things should be.

She would lie here now until he was firmly asleep, she would want to disturb him, there would be time to talk later. Time to do all they would want to.

Later he stirs and smells his favourite things cooking down below, slowly he surveys the room, recognising the femininity, the absence of male and is reminded again of the cost to himself of driving for a living. He would not change this. For his call is movement, new sights and places different.

He bathes, changes and arrives in time to eat. They sit, eating and looking at each other again, they notice the new lines, the occasional grey hairs becoming more frequent and understand that to talk of these is not necessary. Love sees all and does not have to say.

His hand found hers during dessert, holds it gently, tightly, holds it in weightlessness as she begins to tell him of her trials and tribulations in his absence. Some he gives advice on, other he sits and nods sagely as she details triumphs to add his weight to her right actions. Later he tells her of roads, new constrictions to the easy flow of life in traffic, she does not respond knowing that this personal view is completely that: her man’s own troubles. That to decry, demur or add protest would diminish her listening. This is her power here, to listen and add by her presence, she could not resolve him, as he could not resolve her. Words can only get in the way of such sweet music.

The evening resolves, time in contentment, glances taken, shared and returned in completion. As dark approaches they prepare for bed, rituals now keenly developed engulf them both and their night moves on. In tiredness the decide not to make love, to save each other for the morning.

Bob feels the light coming through the curtain before he can see it; his eyes are closed with the dreams of last night still fluttering through his consciousness. This light confirms his shape he feels, confirms it’s joy, contours and colours, never before has he been loved, appreciated for the whole of what and who he is. He feels home in his love as it is stirring him and wonders at the love they have created over time.

The light begins to filter through now; he begins to discern her shape under the covers, her curves, hips, shoulders and hair spread across pillows. He stays still lest he disturb her. He knows she would enjoy such disturbing, this somehow increases pleasure of power he has. He waits in patience.

Outside birds begin the day; trucks pass as he guesses their marque, their load and destination. Cars he knows too but has given up on, feeling there to be no sport in it anymore. Motorcycles he can call at distances of 150yards in small wagers for those foolish enough to bet on such things, this gives him pleasure in some way connected to his youth that he cannot place or name as clearly.

He feels the need to pee and slides from under floral covers to tread pile carpet into their bathroom of tile, mirror and shining chrome. While pissing he gazes into the mirror, not for vanity sake more for reassurance that he is awake at home and not dreaming along early dawn grey road.

Back in bed he moves toward her and feels her cold. He turns her and his fingers touch paled skin, he throws the covers back, flips the light.

Her scars etched in colour against whitened skin only confirm. Tears form but do not drop. Choke rattles as breath forces through. His hands run over her body again.

Again.

He knows this is but cannot be.

This was not how things were to be.

He lies down, pulling the covers back over them.

Lay there remembering.

Tracing moments.

Years.

Nights

Days 

The places they’d been and whether he had strength to return.

Whether he had strength to continue to live.

Whether he could end.

Next to her now.

The sun continued its rise through curtain.

Bob struggled into clothes, tucked the covers under her chin.

Went down to make the call.

©neilbenbow