Smoky Rose

I miss that little nudge in my ribs at seven A.M. and waking up to her vivacious smile. But now I recall her freckled face and tousled copper locks, I wonder, was it a pout rather than a lively grin? Her lips had a life of their own and quivered like the smouldering rim of an active volcano. She was just as likely to pounce on me as erupt into laughter. I’d blink in bewilderment as she drew near, uncertain of her mood and prepare for a possible onslaught. However, most mornings it was her dark hazel eyes that held me captive, glistening like meadowland dew under a cloudless sunrise. Her steady gaze communicated a language I alone understood, articulating thoughts in silent phrases she’d  punctuate with delicate twitches of that button nose, a quizzical eyebrow or subtle lash flutter.

  They say the three ingredients for a happy relationship are staying ahead of the curve, keeping it fresh and not taking things for granted. We never discussed our recipe, because we didn’t have a specific formula. It worked well for such a long time that we avoided analysing it. If you’ve ever tried to explain a joke, you’ll appreciate what I’m saying; by the time you’ve dissected the humour, the moment’s passed. If you’re pushing me to explain our strategy, I’d say we liked to pretend we’d only just met and imagined we’d never meet here again. We’d improvise in the moment like a couple of actors in a long-running show. There was never a fixed script for our daily ritual, and always room for a spontaneous performance.

   Morning, I’d say to her, wiping the sleep away as if recovering from a hibernation.

   Hey, she’d say with a gentle whisper. Do you fancy a nice cup of tea?

   Tea, love? I’d say, rasping a parched tongue over my incisors. 

   Ooh, yes please, she’d respond as if I’d agreed to make it. What a lovely idea.

She’d got her routine down pat, and I never learned my lesson.

   Right, love, I’d say, as she wrapped our quilt around her long pale limbs. Tea it is.

*  *  *

We both agreed a fresh pot of tea is a grand start to any day. The notion of tea in bed was our tonic. It’s a powerful force for good, both invigorating and restorative. We’d started every morning for the past two decades in the same bed and made time for our ritual and relished its comforting whoosh of inner warmth.

   I admit there were days when I could’ve remained in bed and snuggled up under our cloud of cosy domesticity. The cold winter months scarcely invited an exploratory toe, tentative foot, let alone a majestic leap off the mattress. There were days when I’d said, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Then I’d close my eyes and nudge over to her side. She could be firm with me. I could expect a sharp rib jab or tickle, depending on my position.

   No, no, no, not that! I’d say, shielding my ribs. 

   You promised tea.

   It’s cold out there…

   Don’t make me count to three, she’d say.

   You’re so harsh.

   One…

   Give me a moment.

   Two…

   Okay, okay, I’d say, rolling out of bed with her firm foot in my back.

   Slap! Slap! 

With my frozen feet on the bare boards, I’d grit my teeth and face her. 

   Go on then, she’d say, pulling my side of the quilt up to her chin. 

   Just remember, I’d say, grabbing my shirt. It’s your turn tomorrow. 

   Why, of course. She’d purse her lips with mock sincerity. 

   I’m gonna hold you to that, I’d say, hauling on my crumpled jeans. 

   The very idea, she’d say, furrowing her high-domed brow as if affronted.

*  *  *

Tomorrow never came, of course. Why would it? I was a sucker for that Smoky Rose lipstick and those full lips sipping tea from her morning cup. That wonderful, gentle and appreciative smile hovered below her cheekbones like a hummingbird visiting a nectar rich flower. It was a fleeting moment that few had witnessed or acknowledged for its rare beauty. I’d sip my morning beverage and watch her savouring the steaming infusion. Her eyelids would flutter and those dense lashes would droop like rich velvet curtains surrendering to gravity’s pull under a proscenium arch. Her broad smile would envelope her face as she inhaled the tea’s fragrance, drifting upward like mist on a distant loch at dawn. 

*  *  *

She knew those first moments together were the highlight of my morning, my rocket fuel and call to action. It was a powerful motivation that had worked every day of our long marriage. So, I know this is going to sound disrespectful, but I got to hate her tea cup lying around the place. It’s true to say, I lost count how many times I tripped over it beside the bed, found it perched it on my laptop or removed it from my desk top to discover a neat brown ring on a report or important piece of paperwork. She’d deny leaving it around the apartment, of course, but could never find it. If I located it, she’d say it wasn’t hers. I’d clam up at that point. Never underestimate the power of denial. It’s a destructive force. Smoky Rose is a distinctive colour and as I don’t use lipstick, it was obvious who’d abandoned their debris. Maybe I should’ve bought a new cup with her name on it, but life’s too short. Life’s full of ‘maybes’ at a certain time of life and it doesn’t matter now.

*  *  *

I miss that little smile first thing in the morning and the way she’d ask me if I fancied a cup of tea. I knew what she meant and pretended otherwise. Clearly, it was a request for tea disguised as a question. We both knew what was implied and tried to forget she’d dropped the hint about a morning cup of tea about seven thousand times before. You can’t dismiss twenty years of waking up together in the same bed. Even if we made believe otherwise, we couldn’t ignore that inevitable moment every single day.

*  *  *

I don’t miss that jab in the ribs anymore. I enjoy loafing about in bed since they made me redundant. There’s not much call for creative writers to work on local newspapers these days. Anyway, I always hated getting up early in the morning. The winter months were the worst when it was dark and cold. The damp air would choke my lungs with rivers of moist phlegm. I’d cough my guts up as I waited for the pan of water to boil on the stove. Yeah, I don’t miss getting up to that combination. 

*  *  *

The pile of tannin-stained crockery on my bedside table tells my present story and that single vessel on her side reveals another tale. In the end, all that’s left is a smudge of Smoky Rose on the rim of her teacup and last year’s birthday card signed with her signature lipstick kiss.  

I couldn’t care less that she’s gone.

But you know that’s not true.

I’m doing just fine by myself now.

Nobody believes those words.

I don’t miss her at all.

The End