For a lifetime

The car is snoring in a dull and monotonous throb while the sun patiently stretches every tree , one by one, in the longest shadows on the parched lawn. Toby has found shelter under one of them, lying out on the flank, panting, begging him to put the sprinklers on. The Davis’ are on and their regular clicks tick the time away of this endless summer day. The house looks drab from the driveway. They bought it twenty years ago , right from the contractor’s office. Now , the sun has washed the façade white, the paint is flaking, the roof is leaking, doors have swollen. The walls inside are scarred with mementos of unfulfilled dreams. She must be upstairs right now, looking into the cheval glass wondering whether the earrings are matching her top. He has always had the impression that waiting for her in the car would work as a signal. It would prompt her to wrap things up and hurry downstairs. But it has never been that way. She could find ways to lengthen the wait. It was not always a sartorial matter. For all he knows, she could be checking on the gas right now or picking up stray leaves out of the gutter in the back. Even worse, she might be on the phone with her mom.If it is the case, then he is the subject matter.

           But he would rather not think about it. He reverts to the house. This big and empty three bedroom of a house that stares jeeringly at him with its unwashed windows. The lonely chimney stack standing on the roof, unused for years, alongside the twisted aerial, give it a funny air as the two hairs remaining on his head persistently growing back. Apart from its washed-out paint, the front door might be the only element that has been left untouched , the garage being always the most convenient way to get in. It leads to a kitchen where the two of them have shared breakfasts and dinners , their places at the table marked with their names on the napkin rings. The living-room is an uninteresting place with its dusty couches, its fading wedding photograph behind the broken and partly-mended frame glass and an old-fashioned liquor cabinet with one of the doors ajar. Upstairs, the guest room, barely used through the years, has an unmade bed with an half- empty glass and a pill box on the bedside table. The bedroom next door has always been empty. They never even thought to turn it into a box room. Then , the master bedroom , with its gigantic wardrobe closet full of clothes, save for the left side, and where she must be trying on her umpteenth pair of shoes .

           They will be late at the Adams’. All through the night, their host will come up with the same lame jokes. The only thing that brings him comfort is that the Adams’ haven’t been on a vacation for a while and so it means that they won’t have to deal with the ordeal of the holiday slide show. It has always been a favorite of theirs, these sessions to show them in the desert on the backs of camels or riding les bateaux mouches on the Seine, him with his upper lip protruding comically as a camelid , her with her oversized glasses looking like a fly. Their bigger house freshly refurbished would surely rub salt in tonight. And so, will the finer wines, the tastier food and young John on his way to Harvard. The more time she is spending upstairs, the more the evening unfolds under his eyes. All he wants to do is go back inside, tell her to hurry, tell her she’s beautiful, tell her that they don’t need to go to this stupid party, tell her that they’re okay but he knows he can’t.

           The air must have gotten cooler for Toby is now lying on his back with four hooked paws dangling in the air. The Davis’ sprinklers have stopped and he notices that he has turned the engine off. All he can hear is the faint chirps of birds. The house is hopelessly lifeless. He steps out of the car and makes his way to the garage. Sometimes, the slamming of the door triggers her coming out as if she had been waiting behind the door timing how long it would take to make him mad. But not this time. He comes into the kitchen and can’t find courage enough to call her name. The kitchen alone acts as a deterrent. The place is too full of memories and all he wants to do is go back to the safety of the car. At first, he used to wait in bed watching her getting ready after they had made love. Her black curls grazed her shoulders and she gave him smiles that he snatched from the mirror. Then, he took to settling on the living-room armchair as it offered him the convenience of a pre-party drink that would make it all more palatable. From down there, he could guess at the upstairs proceedings and easily predict the time when she would walk down the stairs, looking as pretty as the first time they met. Finally, the car. In there, there was no sound, nothing that reminded him of the house , its insides, their lost opportunities, their failures at happiness. He is now climbing up the stairs and the soft drone of her voice can already be heard. He just needs to turn right but he can’t bring himself to do it. He walks in the first bedroom in front of him. The walls are blue , the floorboards partly-carpeted and dust is revealed through a shaft of sunlight coming through the window. He stands there in the glaring orange of a dying sun. He never comes in there, but the prospect of confronting her had been even more daunting than digging up this excruciating memory. But he can take it only for so long , walks out, stands in front of the master bedroom and from behind the closed door hears a muffled :

“ He could walk in any minute; I’ll call you later. Love you."