AUTHOR'S NOTE: Civil comments welcome. Please move on if stories of extramarital sex are not your thing.
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I wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at myself, and rubbed the towel briskly through my hair, taking the bulk of the water out. As I did every day, I succumbed to vanity and looked at my image in the mirror. Decent looking guy, I thought. That's what my wife says, anyway. I reached for the razor and shave cream and indulged myself in some small self-pity as I spread the cream on my face.
Sure, it was difficult, working opposite shifts. I worked days, she worked nights. Most mornings we saw each other in the morning, unless she worked late. Today she was working late. I had risen as always at five, had coffee downstairs, then went to the garage and spent forty five minutes on the treadmill. Breakfast and a shower, then dress and shave. I'd probably only see her for a few minutes before I had to leave for the office. Wistfully, I scraped the stubble off my face. I worked Monday to Friday, she worked Monday night to Friday night. At least we had Saturday evenings and all day Sundays together, and of course, the few mornings and evenings we could manage to intersect.
You take the good with the bad, I consoled myself, drumming up my pride in my ability to endure a less than satisfactory arrangement. Every marriage has accommodations, everyone makes concessions. I made decent money and so did she, and we both enjoyed our work. We'd discussed it many times, and neither of us wanted to quit and start over. I rubbed my face, checking for missed spots, then leaned over the sink and rinsed. I looked at myself and heaved a sigh. We had most of the weekend together and we made the best of it, and that was okay. She accepted that work took me away from home a lot, and I accepted that her job left me alone in bed most nights. If she got off early I might find her slipping into bed with me in the morning.
I squeezed some gel into my hair and brushed it until it looked okay, thinking I needed a haircut. For age thirty five I thought I looked alright, but dreaded (like many men) the prospect of aging. I fought Mother Nature tooth and nail, hoping to achieve a tie, knowing I couldn't win. I just wanted to still be on my feet after thirteen rounds.
Satisfied with my hair, I rubbed myself mostly dry a little more before wrapping the towel around my waist. Mentally I evaluated my waistline and assumed no change in my weight. Feeling good about myself, I grabbed a couple of cotton swabs from the medicine cabinet before exiting. I padded down the hallway to my room to get dressed.
Once inside I closed the door, sat on the bed and grabbed the remote. A creature of habit, I turned on CNN, because I couldn't stand the inane morning people on Fox News. I kept the sound low and read the scrawl as I dried and cleaned my ears before heading for my armoire. I grabbed the deodorant, then underwear. I sprayed on a little cologne before slipping the tee shirt over my head, careful not to muss my gelled hair. I checked it in the mirror. Satisfied it wasn't damaged, I tucked my undershirt into the waistband of my boxer briefs; it keeps it from bunching up and making me look pudgy. Vain, I know. But whatever works. I can't stop getting older, but I can keep from looking older.
I went to the closet and picked out dress pants, and selected a matching shirt. I used to do this the night before, so I could match them in the light, but I kept my closet organized, so I could do it easily without turning all the lights on. A well-ordered life, I kidded myself, but it's really about habit and routine. Maintaining the background structure makes it possible to maintain the routine, and the routine affords security and safety and comfort. Before dressing, I returned to the armoire and selected socks that matched the slacks. Trivial, but important. Clothes selected, I made the bed. She hates it when I leave it unmade, and it takes no time, really. So I made the bed, put the duvet cover back in place, and arranged the big square pillows (she has a name for them, but to me they are big squares) and the smaller decorative pillows. Satisfied, I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped my socks on.
Returning to the closet, I took the pants from the hanger. As I dressed, I thought of her; she might be getting off soon. I hoped to have a few minutes to chat, maybe in the kitchen, as I had my second cup of coffee. But she said she was busy and was working late, so I resigned myself to a quick kiss as we passed, like ships in the night. At least we had the weekends, and I treasured those. I knew she did, too.
Standing in front of the mirror, I slipped the dress shirt on. And gathered the back before pulling the pants up, so the shirt wouldn't bunch at the waistband. No sense doing crunches every night if the shirt bunches up and makes me look unkempt and heavier! Satisfied, I returned to the closet, selected a few ties, and held them in front of me to match them correctly. Selecting the one I thought was best, I longed for the occasional opportunity when she finished early, and would select my tie for me. With a sigh, I tied the tie, measuring by habit to makes sure it just touched my belt.
I checked myself one more time, and headed for the kitchen.
I made a quick bowl of cereal, threw in some milk and shoveled it down. There was really no reason to keep quiet, but I kept my noise to a minimum, out of habit. It wasn't like anyone would hear me. Finished, I washed the bowl and left it on the drying rack. Too often I'd get a text from her about my bowl in the sink. It's the little things, I thought. It takes no time, like making the bed, and it makes her happy.
