Muted Mornings

The early lights of day peer through the kitchen windows and yet not a moment throughout the night did we shut our eyes. The golden hues reflect against the stark white kitchen and it makes me wonder why in this day and age it has become the norm to paint your entire home a cold hospital white or beige color. To replicate the colorful hues of nature is to bring beauty into your home. Green plants in red clay pots on the windowsills. Deep ocean blue wooden cabinets with carved details around the edges. Multicolored flowers sat atop white or wood countertops. Lavender. Roses. Peonies. Lilies. Why anyone would not want that is beyond me.

To bleed every color out for the sake of aesthetic is a crime against nature. And after taking a final sip of my merlot, draining the glass, I finally speak for the first time in what feels like hours.

“You should really bring some color into this place,” I croak, pointing upwards and gesture around the room. “Paint a wall or something.”

He continues to stare out the bay window above the sink towards the oceanview he has for a backyard as he quietly agrees with me.

Moments of silence pass once more as I listen to the white clock on the white wall above the white hidden fridge tick away the minutes before either of us speaks again. As I sit here in this stillness, I ponder the reasoning for the silence. Though it is not entirely an awkward silence, the air feels heavy, as though with every moment that passes we are adding weight to ourselves little by little.

“What time is your flight,” he breaks the silence.

“Eleven,” I answer.

We both peer up at the hueless clock. 7:19am.

“Let me cook you some breakfast, then,” he stands up, heading towards the fridge.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Please, just let me–”

“I said I’m not hungry,” I snap.

He ignores my frustration and proceeds to pull a carton of eggs and milk and cheese out of the fridge. I let it happen. I’m too tired to argue. More time passes, the only sound being the sizzle of scrambled eggs on a hot pan and the spring of the toaster before the clink of the white ceramic plate on the white marble countertop.

I stare down at the spoon he places in front of me in lieu of the spoon before looking up at him, question painted on my face.

“I figured it’d be harder for you to stab me with a spoon,” he jokes. Clearly he’s trying to lighten the mood, but all it does is pull us down to deeper depths.

“What, are you trying to be funny?” I ask incredulously, eyebrows knit tight together. His smug grin is quickly replaced by a sheepish one as he notices the harshness in my tone, and the fact that he even has a slight hint of happiness in him is enough to get me started. Without even looking at him, I sigh, “Married. You are still married.”

“We’re getting divorced,” he has the audacity to clarify.

“Getting divorced is not divorced!” I begin to shout. “Getting divorced is still married, Archer.”

He runs a hand down his face with exasperation. “She’s draining me, Jordan. Don’t you get it? I mean, look at this house, look at my life, I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t,” I point at him. “Don’t you dare blame someone you claim to love for the fact that you live a life you don’t love. And don’t you dare,” I stand up and take a step towards him grabbing his chin, “Use me as a weapon against a woman you’ve made vows to. I won’t do it, Archer. I won’t be the other woman.” I discard his face like the garbage he is.

“You already are.”

Immediately, the same hand that grabbed his chin collides with the stubble of his cheek with a crisp slap. My body catches on fire and my blood boils over as I remember that this is the same man with whom I fell in love in my adolescence and the same one who told me he’d wait for me. To not only be asked to come back to him when he has not yet severed the ties that bind him to another woman, but to also hear the way he speaks of her and to me fills me with disgust.

Storming towards the front door, I snatch my purse–the only luggage I brought on this impromptu trip–and throw open the oakwood door. To my dismay, the beaming face of my high school best friend greets me. Her right hand clutches the handle of a carry-on and a boarding pass, his last name no doubt printed on it, and the left reaching for the doorknob, a large diamond ring still fully intact on her finger.

Bewilderment dances on her smiling face as she takes in the sight of a woman she has not seen in nearly a decade. I plaster on the biggest smile I can, the word “surprise” managing to escape my throat with a squeak. 

She pauses, her eyes flickering between me and her husband in the kitchen. Her smile falters, and for a moment, everything freezes– the ticking clock, the morning light which has now shifted away from its golden hue.

“Jordan?” she says slowly, unsure.

I nod, forcing another smile, but my mind races for an escape, a way to disappear from this scene that feels like a twisted Sally Rooney novel. Archer steps forward, his face pale, trying to mask the guilt that clings to him like a shadow.

“Archer never mentioned you’d visit,” she says, her voice laced with confusion and suspicion, yet still so full of warmth. I want to scream, but instead, I swallow it down and shake my head.

“Actually, I’m just leaving,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d be back last night so I came to surprise you. Guess Archer and I got our wires crossed.” I clutch my purse tighter, feeling the weight of everything–the lies, betrayal. The love that was never quite mine.

As I step past her, the smell of eggs and toast still lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of her perfume. Vanilla. Sweet and innocent. I step out into the driveway, letting the cool beach morning air hit my face, and I walk away from the white kitchen, knowing I will never return.