The Walk

I don’t know what compelled me to that night but I decided to take the long way home. I define myself as an efficient person. One who takes the short way home because I know it’s faster and I have more productive things to do than peruse the monotonous commodities my town has to offer. I normally leave work at 6:00 p.m., walk the 13 minute, beeline path home and immediately begin making dinner for my husband and I. He works until 6:30 and it takes him a 30 minute drive to get home, just in time for whatever quick meal I’ve thrown together. It’s normally something with minimal ingredients and cleanup, like spaghetti and frozen meatballs or preformed turkey burgers. 

I take about 15 minutes to eat normally. We talk briefly about our days, which are indistinguishable from the last, and then I get to cleaning. I put dinner away and do the dishes. I clean the house until it’s spotless and then at approximately 9:00 I get ready for bed and prepare to do it all again the next day. My husband usually doesn’t help with the cleaning. He takes his computer up to the bedroom and does work until I turn off the lights for bed. We kiss goodnight sometimes, but not every night. It bothers me sometimes, but not always. I think we’re both just busy, preoccupied people. 

My mom calls me once a week and my least favorite question that she asks is, “What have you been up to?” I hate when people ask me that because the answer is always nothing. I am always up to the same rudimentary tasks, confined to my elemental routine, and while it sounds like a boring life, I quite like its predictability. I know exactly what to expect, day in and day out. It keeps life simple.

Why on a random Thursday evening then, I decided I felt like walking the long way home after work I’ll never know. Instead of taking a right out of my work building and walking down the road to my house, I crossed the street and headed towards the water. It was about five minutes from my work, and as the ripples in the lake came into sight, I questioned why I didn’t walk over there more. It was November, and the sun had begun to set earlier and earlier. It was already setting over the water’s edge and had casted a bright orange reflection below it. Despite it being a cold fall evening, the fiery hues that lit up the sky gave me a sense of warmth. 

I walked down the street at a slower pace than normal, admiring the row of houses that overlooked the water. I wondered how expensive they were and if we could have afforded one when we were looking to buy our house. I wondered if everyday life would have been any more appealing if I walked alongside this view every night on my way home. I wondered if the people that live here look out their window as often as I would, and if they were looking at the way the sun was beautifully setting that night. How often did the sun set that beautifully there?

Suddenly I saw it. It was poking out of the driveway of a house I didn’t recognize. At first I wasn’t sure, but as I approached it I saw the dent in the back bumper. I kept walking towards it until I saw the black forest air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. It had lost its scent months ago and was thus serving as a fruitless decorative piece. I got close enough to squint through the passenger window and saw our wedding ring resting in his otherwise empty cup holder. It was my husband’s beaten down, dusty blue truck. I pulled out my phone and checked the time; 6:10. I knew he should’ve still been at work. 

I was never one to snoop through my husband’s things. I didn’t check his phone when he left it lying out or even glanced at his notifications when I’d hear them go off. I never questioned if he was at work when he said he was, because he never gave me a reason to. He never “worked late.” He was always home when I knew he should be, right at 7:00. He was stable and consistent, like I was. Consistent people didn’t do things that were out of the norm, like cheat. 

Maybe that was why I immediately started to think of best case scenarios on that Thursday evening. Maybe his boss asked him to come here for something. Maybe this was an old friend’s house and he was going to tell me all about how they were catching up today. Maybe someone needed help and he was the first to offer a hand. No reasonable explanation could explain the wedding ring, though. I still get a knot in my stomach when I think about seeing it sitting there. Like marriage was something he could just take off like clothing. 

I probably should have just left then, but I found myself walking up the stone walkway. The house was big, white, and had a grand front porch adorned with a “Welcome Home” mat, hanging plants and a swinging bench. I imagined the bench would have been the perfect place to watch the sunset. 

I quietly made my way up the wooden steps and over to a window to the left of the front door. I didn’t know what I was expecting to see. Perhaps clothes scattered across the floor, taken off in a lustful haste. My husband and the mystery woman passionately making love on the kitchen table. They were making love in a way I suppose, but not in the way I had briefly anticipated. With hands cupped around my eyes against the glass, I saw my husband smiling ear to ear. The woman, with long brown hair that cascaded down her thin frame, was laughing. Her body was adorned with more jewelry than I owned. My husband said something with gestures and mannerisms that I hadn’t seen in a while, to which she laughed even harder than before and touched his arm. I looked around them and saw there was dinner being made. Something with more pots and pans than I used in a week. Was he going to stay for dinner? Did he always eat dinner twice?

I watched as he grabbed her from behind and pulled her body close. I never saw them so much as kiss that night, but watching his non-sexual intimacy with her I think was much worse. I wish they had been having sex. Quick, impassionate, lascivious sex. If he loved her that way, what way had he loved me? Was I a stable love? One he knew was safe to come home to every night? Or was I just a part of his routine? A love that had expired, but he wasn’t yet ready to throw away because it bore change. 

I had seen enough. I walked home feeling heavier than before, like my heart had swelled and sunk into my feet, weighing them down like I was wearing lead shoes. When I got home I contemplated what my next step would be. My options were to make dinner and proceed as if what I’d just witnessed never happened or to leave. Ultimately, I decided to do both. I pretended to be oblivious for the next week, going about our routine as per usual. He never bothered to touch the laundry before and that week was no different, which made it easier to gradually pack my clothes up into suitcases. He didn’t notice as my things began disappearing which made me wonder if he had noticed them there in the first place.

One week came and went and without a single goodbye, I left while he was at work. I didn’t leave a note or any sort of explanation. I simply vanished. I changed his life just as abruptly as he had changed mine. At the time, I felt very numb. I chalked this up to me being tough and processing my emotions quickly and efficiently. I now realize though, that I was feeling too many emotions at once to feel anything at all. I was feeling sad, anxious, angry, and resentful. Most of all, I was feeling relieved. I spent much of my adult life trying to be as productive as possible. This meant setting aside things that I really wanted and remaining in a state of comfortability. I didn’t give much thought to things, like if I was really happy or not, because that meant breaking a routine that I’d had for years. To break my routine required me to fall loose from my self-constructed path, and that was something I wasn’t ready to do. I wasn’t ready to admit that I wasn’t happy in the life that I had made for myself.

I always take the long way home now. It is not convenient and certainly not the most efficient. It brings me joy, though. The sunsets look brighter on the long way home and the air feels more soothing. The trees look more serene and the ocean looks more peaceful. The world looks more promising when I don’t feel rushed and when I look at it with intention. I try to take the long way home not just literally, but also with everything that I do now. I make meals that require more pots and pans, ones that take longer but undoubtedly taste better. I make time to read and journal before bed, because I’ve found it relaxes me. I spend money on things that I don’t need like clothes, purses, and jewelry. I like how I look more when I’m wearing my favorite things. When my mother calls me, I tell her about all the new recipes I’ve tried, and books I’ve read, and the new places that I’ve gone to. It’s not productive, but not everything is supposed to be. I like it better this way.