STANDING IN THE DOORWAY

She’s standing in the doorway, partially obscured by the wide, custom molded frame.

Quietly she peers in. He’s hunched over his cereal bowl. Through the thin white tee shirt, she notices more musculature in his back than she recalls. But it’s been so long since she’s seen his bare skin. Touched him.

Eyes shift to the new kitchen; in particular the Wolf range. She rarely cooks, but she loves to look at it—the gleaming stainless steel, those spectacular red knobs. Eyes revolve around the room: New Subzero refrigerator, carefully chosen subway tile backsplash, custom painted cabinets, the perfect granite. The perfect kitchen in the perfect house; the perfect neighborhood in the perfect town.

His iPhone rings and he answers. She sees his shoulders relax.

“Miss you, too, babe.”

She runs her fingers through her hair, thinking she should have started dying out the gray. Her hands run over her face—her lips are still full, her skin still soft, but she feels the newly-developing furrow between her brows.

Leaning forward, he caresses the phone at his ear, whispering in a voice she vaguely recalls, “I know, I’ll think of something……. Today………. I’ll get out of the office.” Long pause. “I do want to, I do.”

Sometimes it seems a million years ago, sometimes just yesterday that they sat together at breakfast. Back when she cooked for him on the old electric coil range—two burners. He’d laugh that she always overcooked the eggs to remove any possible traces of salmonella. Before scrambling them, she’d fish around in the bowl until she caught and removed the egg umbilical cord, winding it around the fork and flinging it into the sink.

“Okay, okay,” he whispers, softly sighing. “Layla, you’ve got me on my knees. Layla, I’m begging daring, please. Layla, darling won’t you ease my worried mind.” His voice, though purposely subdued, is soft and on key, as always.

Strumming his guitar, he used to sing to her. “Come on, name any song,” he’d cajole. Almost any song thrown to him, he would know. But she especially liked when he didn’t know a song because he’d make one up on the spot. She loved that about him—could remember how it felt to love him like that. Back then.

“Listen, Lay, I have to go, Hone.” He stands abruptly and turns around, removing his shirt from its plastic wrapping and shaking it out. It’s heavily starched like he likes. He puts on the shirt and starts buttoning. Wraps the Hermes tie loosely around his neck.

Looking up, he sees her in the doorway.

“Oh, good morning,” he says, a slight look of unease flits quickly over his eyes. But his brow doesn’t furrow. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Just got up,” she says, pulling the old tired robe tighter around herself, thinking that Layla probably wears Perla negligees. Turning and walking back toward the stairs, she feels vaguely like crying but no tears come.