My Man

My man’s coming home today.

He’ll come here first. Before he goes to the white house with the picket fence, with the sky-blue shutters and the apple pie kept warm in the slanting sun on the windowsill, he’ll walk up my steps. Before he takes her hand and calls her sweetheart, before he swings a child through the air and listens to its laughter like sweetened bells, he’ll knock on my door.

He won’t call me sweetheart but baby; he’ll dip me down instead of picking me up, drink me in like the whiskey he hasn’t had a drop of since he went to war. I’ve watched him be so sweet to her, picking flowers growing in a neighbour’s garden and laughing through the old lady’s chiding; with me he’s rough, desperate, and I tell myself that means he needs me more, wants me more.

She doesn’t wear a smile like mine; pearls he gave me dripping down my throat, scarlet clothes a good woman wouldn’t dare to wear.

I have freedom she could never dream of; walk myself to church every Sunday, eat bonbons til my sides split, host salons where intellectuals grope in dark corners and whisper dreams their wives will never know. But freedom is another way to say no guarantees. We can give each other up as easily as breathing; and like giving up breath, I will move on to the next inhale or die.

Today is all about the smile, all about the waiting, all about the dream he’s been clutching in dirty hands as blood mixes dirt into slurries around him. My man’s coming home today, and he’ll see me first, and I’ll feel like I own him, a little bit more than I usually do, a little bit more than I did tomorrow, and a little bit more than I will next week.

Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, with more information about Hayley on Our Contributors page. -with model Lyssa Strata.