Awaiting dawn

I had done it again. This time as always, the guilt tore at me, but the sex was as amazing as it always was, and so I shrugged it off. I stared down at the woman who lay sleeping beside me, and it felt like I could get lost in the curves of her body.

How lucky I was to be the one she chose of all the options available to her. She was the most sought after in the office complex I worked. But I was the one who won the lottery. For some reason. Sometimes I wondered what that reason was. But I did not wonder too hard. I preferred to live in the moment and enjoy it. I cursed aloud when a glance to the right revealed the time. I hurriedly jumped out of bed and gathered up my stuff. I was late for my seventh wedding anniversary dinner.

I ignored the pained look in my wife’s eyes when I met her at the fancy restaurant she had picked two hours later than the reservation. I had not thought up any explanations, so I didn’t bother giving any. How could I confess that my wife Nadia no longer looked sexy to me? How could I tell her that I only wore my wedding band in her presence and nowhere else?

Our reservation had expired, and another couple had taken our table. It was Valentine’s Day, so the restaurant was fully booked. Visibly pissed, Nadia insisted on going home. The drive home was quiet. We were both lost in thought. She was probably thinking of how horrible a husband I was. Oh well, there wasn’t much I could do about that.

She asked me to stop by a gift shop close to the house, went in, and spent quite some time. Since I had forgotten to get her a gift, I went in after her and bought a card. But when I handed it to her, she tossed it aside, lamenting on how impassionate the gift was, and how she was reaching her limit. Bah! As far as I was concerned, she was a nagging ingrate, and I paid no mind to what she said.

Image source: Unsplash (Dhaval Parmar)

Our two kids were still up when we got home. Trust my first daughter, Dani, to be armed with a million and one questions. I was tired and not in the mood for her excited questions about how our anniversary went. I deflected by telling her I needed to have a shower.

As I stepped out of the shower, I heard Nadia spinning a tale to our daughters about the most romantic day ever as she showed them the gift daddy had bought. It was a silver jewelry set and a matching wristwatch. I was made into a hero and showered with lots of kisses by my kids when they looked up and saw me.

As I lay down in bed later that night, I felt myself sink to a new level of low that I had never felt before. If I was being honest, I knew I sucked as a husband. Memories flooded me. I remembered the nights she begged me to be home on time because she was too ill to handle our two kids. Or the time she looked at me with so much pain when I came back too drunk to remember her father’s funeral was that day, and she had needed my support.

More importantly, I became confronted with the many lies I had told her in search of the next conquest I could show my sexual prowess. I couldn’t wait for the next day to come fast enough for some changes to be made. Sleep was a welcome relief from the crazy thoughts I had.

Dawn came slowly, as though it were mocking me. After my meeting at the office, I asked my secretary to cancel all my other engagements. Nadia had said she would be working from home today. Perfect. Now it had dawned on me now how much I had hurt my wife through my actions, I was determined to make amends. Holding the bouquet of roses I knew was her favorite, I opened the door and ran upstairs to our room.

To our empty room. The drawers were cleared out, her clothes were gone, and so was she.

I was too late.

 

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Love,

Diane.

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Hello! I'm Diane

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I am a writer and the founder of Thoughts on Ink, a creative space where I explore a vibrant mix of topics that inspire and spark change. Storytelling fuels my passion. Whether I’m crafting emotive narratives, jotting down uplifting thoughts, or illuminating pressing social issues, I truly believe in the transformative magic of the written word.
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