This was inspired by the Keith Whitley song, "Don't Close Your Eyes." I have incorporated small, unquoted portions of the lyrics into the story where appropriate.
I examined my face in the rear-view mirror one last time, checking to see if I was still successfully masking the savage glee bubbling up from my chest. Satisfied with the apparently calm man staring back at me, I grabbed a grocery tote from the passenger seat and entered the house from the garage.
I had been confident that Tara, my kind, open-hearted spouse, would be devastated with grief and, as I entered the darkened living room, I found I was right. My wife of twenty years was laying on the couch weeping gently in the dimness. She looked up at me briefly, pain and sadness pooling in her eyes, as I put down the tote, kicked off my shoes and joined her there. I took her into my arms and soothed her as best I could with gentle strokes and soft words of love.
She wept, then sobbed, clinging to me desperately, then wept again until she finally wound down. I thought she had fallen asleep until she spoke gently against my neck.
"Peter is dead," she said quietly. "I guess you knew that, though." Peter was her ex-boyfriend, the one for which she had carried the torch for over twenty-two years. The one she had assiduously avoided being alone with ever since she started dating me all those long, long years ago. The one I was pretty sure she saw from time to time behind closed eyes while we made love.
"Of course," I said, my voice soothing and calm. "I came home as soon as I heard." I wanted to leap for joy, now that her first true love was a ghost, but I breathed in and out steadily, calming myself and her. She squeezed me tightly for a moment, then started to get up from the couch.
"I have to make dinner," she said as she tried to rise. I stopped her, pressing her back down onto the couch.
"I have taken care of that for tonight," I said, getting up and opening the tote.
A small box of expensive sweet-smelling chocolates, two bottles of decent red wine, and the boxed set of the first season of her most favorite TV show of all time. Comforting things. Things to take her mind off her sorrow. Things to show her my love.
She smiled weakly and kissed my hand as I fed her the first of the chocolates. I touched her face, so soft and wet from tears, and gently kissed her lips. Her eyes closed as a tear drifted down onto her cheek. I gently disengaged and stood.
"I have to go get the wine glasses. Why don't you start the first episode while I do that?" I asked. She brightened just a bit and nodded.
I took my time in the kitchen. I sliced off some of our favorite cheddar and placed it, along with some salted wheat crackers, on a small wooden tray. I retrieved two wine glasses, the seal-cutter, and the corkscrew and carried everything to the living room.
When I handed her a glass of the wine and sat down next to her, she sighed contentedly and leaned into me, as if for support. I took her into the crook of my arm, loving the feeling, same as always, of her sweet warmth nestled there next to my heart.
"Why are you so good to me?" she asked lightly, eyes fixed on mine. The TV show played in the background, temporarily forgotten. I paused and thought for a moment. I hugged her to me.
"Because you are my wife, and the love of my life," I said. A smile broke out on her face, and a twinkle sparked in her eyes as she gazed steadily on me for a moment. Then she turned back to the TV show, content for the time to be with me. To forget her grief for a while. To be happy again for a brief time.
We sat there for hours, cuddled together, watching her shows. She cleaned out both bottles of wine and, shortly after midnight, fell asleep at my side. I took her upstairs, undressed both of us, then pulled her close to me under the covers once again.
Sleep reclaimed her immediately, but it was a long while for me. I lay there, arms wrapped around her, thinking of our life together so far, and our future ahead.
***
Tara was out of sorts for the next couple of days. In between the busy times of being supportive of the widow (her sister, Karen), I sometimes found her sitting, head back and eyes closed, saying nothing, looking at nothing. I took care of her as best I could, taking pains to see that the routines of our life continued. I cooked meals, and, with her clinging help, washed dishes. We shared time in the shower, loving each other with cleanliness. We cuddled often. Though there was no sex, I wasn't too disappointed as I understood that grieving takes the sexiness out of you. Together, we carried on quietly.
The day of the funeral arrived and, as the hour approached, I could see Tara was sinking into a deep well of emotions. Her color paled, and she wept quietly. On the drive to the funeral home, Tara sat in the corner of her seat, eyes closed and trembling, almost as if she were freezing cold. I felt a flare of irritation at the depth of emotion she was experiencing, but I quickly suppressed it. I had to stay calm and loving, be her rock so she would cling only to me now. To bind us more tightly together.
When we parked, I took her hands into mine and, looking into her eyes, said, "I know you loved him first and longest, and that a part of you will always want him alive again. My heart breaks for your pain, so I want you to feel free to grieve. Don't hold back because I'm here, don't limit yourself to save my feeling in this. I will be here for you while you grieve, and forever after."
Fresh tears gushed from her eyes. She closed them and, taking my face in her hands, kissed me softly, long and sadly. I started trembling, unable to contain the emotions welling up in me. My tears mingled with hers, her grief and sadness mingling with my heartache and desire.
The two sisters embraced, clinging to each other, weeping and sighing like two wretched, loveless widows. The ache in my heart throbbed like a sore tooth, and it was all I could do to keep myself upright and stone-faced. I consoled myself with the thought that she would first grieve him, then love me, and only me, from now on. I was finding it harder and harder to convince myself, though. Would it be her and me alone together, or would she still sometimes pretend it's him in a lover's fantasy behind her closed eyes?
The grieving sisters rode together in the lead car to the cemetery, and I followed the chain of funeral cars, second from the rear. I told myself, in a sharp rebuke, that the sisters needed each other and that it had nothing to do with the way my wife felt about the dead man. I berated myself for taking it personally, for thinking it looked like Peter had two widows, one of them my wife. I pushed the anger and loneliness down over and over and over again until finally, I felt cold, aloof.
Some five hours later, we finally made it home. As we dragged ourselves through the door, Tara seemed to come back to the present and notice me there. We changed clothes and, laying together on the couch, watched mindless TV until we fell asleep. Her warmth threaded with her breathing to form a comforting cocoon of love around me. I drifted off into sleep, the terrible feelings of loss and heartache fading along with consciousness.
