I dropped mail off at my husband’s apartment. Unfortunately I do this once or twice a week. I usually peek in the windows — the ones that aren’t covered by blinds — like the kitchen window. There is was a new object on his table. It was daytime, but the only thing I could make out was that it was a framed picture. There’s nothing on the walls in his apartment. Nothing personal going on there. Except this now. I had to write it on a sticky note, “Take binoculars on errands tomorrow.” Because I obey stickies.
The next day I used the binoculars to look in the same window. It didn’t help. So, I squinted and blocked the sun and it was a picture of something with expansive sky — ocean? mountain? and people — him and one of the kids? His mother is staying with him this week. Was this personal touch for her benefit?
Then they cam into view. It was him and her. I think they were posing on the top of a mountain, a place I have been to with my family and of which I have a similar picture. Why do men take their new interests to visit their old haunts? A place that is already taken. A place where the memory bank is full.
And so many questions: 1) Who took their picture? Did they bring some kind of timer camera, planning to document themselves? 2) Why does he need a picture of her? She works for him. They see each other EVERY DAY. They sleep together. They see each other the weekends she doesn’t have custody of her small children. 3) Does he think his mother will appreciate it? Is this an in-your-face memorialized statement that he’s moved on? 4) Do you know how odd it is to see your husband smiling in a picture as a couple with another woman? A woman I disliked before they decided to leave their spouses and go for each other and a woman I despise now.
I know, I know…It’s my fault. Why do I look in his windows? What are the odds I’m going to see something I like? I spent the rest of the weekend trying to get back to the good place I had been in.
Shit. Fucking shit. This is way harder than the movies let on. It just might kill me. It’s like being someone who has successfully beat a disease and then dies of the pneumonia contracted at the end.
As Norah Jones says in one of her songs, “My heart is sore.” My heart is so sore…