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mornings
Minimel
21 Sep 2003
When I am with her, I dread mornings. Mornings were made for bad breath, for hair pointing out in different directions, propelled upwards perhaps towards the sun. it's a time of clarity, of realisation.
As the sun peeks over the horizon and its rays slowly fill up the shadows in the room, my tension mounts. What if today she realised that she didn't love or need me? what if she turned over to me and with her sleepy eyes saw a stranger, a mistake, and eventually an abortion? I dread mornings.
At nights, things are magical. Darkness soothes my fears and perhaps more importantly masks my spotty complexion and imperfect facial features. In the chill of the night, passions run deep. The monotony of the day that passed gives one a moment of reflection, that in contrast, this is good. Having someone around waiting for you with a tender smile, a warm embrace or a passionate kiss.
I furtively notice her actions in the mornings for any sign of waning love. She usually appears brusque in the mornings. She gets out of bed and heads for the shower and I lie in bed worrying. Is it today? Did she smile at me? did she say she loves me? Teetering between the transition of sleep and wakefulness makes it even an even more harrowing episode. Did she or not?
She comes back into the room with a towel wrapped around herself and walks purposefully towards her wardrobe. Her purposefulness was what drew me to her and yet at the same time, I fear this determination should it be directed towards my illusion of our relationship.
"remember tonight dear, we're going out," she says.
In the mornings I dissect each word she says. Did she call me dear, a lesser term of endearment than baby because she's sick of me? whats happening tonight besides the movie we're catching with some friends? Should I prepare tissues for my inevitable outbreak of tears if she says she doesn't love me? The battle for my sanity wages in my head as I pull myself out of bed and into the shower, wishing that the sun never rose.
The bathroom is wet. She doesn't close shower doors. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder if she sees the same person she saw when she first fell in love with me. with my face puffy from sleep, I am certain that my half brother is the Elephant Man. Each of my eyes belonged to 2 different people. I had triple eyelids on one eye and none on the other. Both saw the same thing however, a flabby man with a big nose and bulging indecisive cheeks; they wondered if they should turn into jowls, tomorrow or the week after. My thinning hair was matted firmly to one side of my head while the other stabbed upwards stubbornly into the air. White hairs sprinkled my head where there once was a sea of black. I dread mornings.
As I step into the bath and run the water, she comes in and starts applying her makeup, not that she needed it. She has a perfect face with bright brown eyes framed by her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. She flicked her foundation at the blemishes on her face only she saw. Her long lustrous hair cascaded down the back with not a single wayward strand poking out; she probably hadn't even combed it yet. She always knew how to pick the perfect clothes to accentuate her figure and this morning, she wore a denim skirt which showed off her tanned legs and a fitting black top which accentuated her firm, pert breasts which cried to be released from their binds, as big as they were. I lusted for her.
I don't know if I was happy or sad that she didn't look at me showering. The dilemma was akin to being invited to a glamorous party but having no clothes to wear. I didn't want her to see me in my pigskin, which, over the years, I have added onto my stomach, chest and legs. Yet at the same time I craved her looking at me and still wanting me despite all that. I showered in a hurry and towelling furiously I stepped out of the bathroom, eager to escape the catch 22 situation I found myself in whenever I am naked when she's around.
I change into my shirt and pants. They're the same ones I wore almost everyday. I like greys and white when I go to work. I feel that those colours make people seem stately, but on me, it whimpers boredom. I wonder if she thinks that. If I started wearing other colours, would she find me more appealing?
We're both ready and we head to the door to our respective cars and respective jobs. This is the moment I fear the most. I wear my shoes and stand at the door waiting for her to grab her bag and head out into the dreadful sun. I rest my body weight on one leg and then the other. I am anxious to get this over and done with. She walks pass me, out of the door and stops. Pulling my face down to hers, she kisses me.
"I love you baby, talk to you in a bit," she says.
I feel happy, elated and euphoric. But as I get into the car and pull out the driveway, a sense of foreboding hits me. Morning is just another 24 hours away.
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