Nothing is ever perfect. It is what you make of it.

Emily Giffin.



Sometimes I feel like a different character. I've always seen myself in a certain light; low and average. But I'm not always a married woman, a housewife, taking classes, working, going out with my dog and going to bed with my husband every night.


Sometimes, often for weeks at a time, I feel like a woman in the city, making her way through life with a twist. I feel like I'm having some affair with a spoken for man. He is attached to some high society, classy but careless woman, and I am his mistress. Her eyes are everywhere and yet we manage to stay a secret, sneaking around in the shadows, unseen. By daylight everything seems average. I wake up, I work, I clean, I make dinner. At night I go to bed, sheets made from the morning, my dog curled up on one side as I crack open a book on the other. In the morning, it all starts again.

And then, on rare occasion, I have a great secret to await. Some night late in the week, I become anxious. I hurriedly clean the whole house, mopping, scrubbing, dusting every nook and cranny. Then it's my turn. I shower, shave my legs, pluck my brows. Moisturize, file my nails, pick out the perfect outfit- but I don't put it on until I get the phone call. I don't leave the house. I sit. And I wait. My dog lays on my lap, keeping me company, while she herself awaits his arrival. We are like a second family, that this great woman knows nothing about. And then the phone rings. It's finally my turn.

Times like this, nothing is small. Petty things are so much more insignificant. We could lay in bed all day talking or watching movies or reading, and it is epic, because we are finally together and alone, unseen. We are so anxious to spend every moment that we have completely in love with each other that we ignore phone calls, we skip fancy dinners or weekend getaways. Being together is our get away. And we dread the moment it ends.

And then again, it's time to say goodbye. Late at night, he packs his things, a duffel bag only, because that is all the time we had together in the first place. I hold back tears every time I see him ready to go. He comes to bed for one last night, and even my bed seems less plush, sad that once again, it will only be the dog and I cuddling every evening. This night is always so bittersweet.

Early in the morning, he wakes up, he softly kisses me goodbye and gently closes the door behind him. I can only go back to sleep so not to miss him. But I will wake up later, feeling refreshed. I don't make the bed this first morning, to preserve our night together and feel like he is coming back to me sooner than he really is. I go about my day, back into reality, back to my routine, back to these happy days and lonely evenings.

Affairs are always so looked down upon. But this one doesn't feel the same. I am content with my life, sometimes alone, here in an apartment far from any place I ever knew before, patiently waiting for the sea to let my husband come home. Loving when she does. Embracing in every moment together, knowing soon he'll be gone again.
 
 
 
 
This weekend marks the beginning of the longest span of consequetive nights I will have spend with Hubbers since October. I could not be more excited to have him coming home to me for a while.