Searching for Perfection

"Or wash it properly," Bridget says, but her cheeky little grin sneaks upon her lips again before she continues, pretending to grab something from Jordan's hair. "I think there's a bird nesting up here, look, I found an egg!"

Ebony laughs too. "Skye's mummy and daddy think spiders climb into people's unwashed hair when they sleep, so maybe it's a nest of red-backs!"

Jordan is giggling and starts saying, "Spiders can't live in hair."

"They can," I say with sincerity, "If you don't wash hair you'll grow dreadlocks, and spiders see dreadlocks as prime real estate, mate. Especially red-backs."

Catching Bridget's eye, she's giving me a disapproving expression. Ebony's laughing while Jordan runs his hands through his hair, perhaps considering washing it for once, so things aren't too bad.

It's Bridget's way to push everyone towards the ultimate goal of getting out the door on time, and she does this now with great zest. Ebony, who's used to her mother's pestering and shows no real indication of becoming a rebellious teen in the future despite our banter, follows instructions to the letter, even if she regularly rolls her eyes. She knows she's not the one who needs to be told.

Jordan, on the other hand, moves towards the door at a different pace, getting distracted throughout the entire process, and when he can't find his swimming togs I think he's going to lose his shit, however Bridget is gentle but firm, telling him to have another look. I'll step in too if I think someone will forget something else critical, but this routine is Bridget's domain. Jordan doesn't see his mum purse her lips in a slight grimace once he's looking away, but I do.

Personally, I'd like to let the kids work shit out for themselves. I trust Ebony won't forget her books or lunch or whatnot, and is more independent than I was at her age, and who makes a damn fine coffee. Encourage this behaviour and give them independence, right?

Finally the kids are through the door and heading down the front path and Bridget does her rounds of the light switches and stove, which was never turned on this morning, and I lead the dogs into our little backyard, looking into Peggy's eyes as she cocks her head as I tell them we'll be back, we always are, and soon I'm on the porch locking the front door as Bridget checks her handbag for her car-key while standing at the top of the step.

"Don't forget Ebb and I have hockey this afternoon," Bridget's saying, "And Jordan has swimming."

"Hey, no worries, and don't worry, I know you're going out tonight so I'll make sure I'm on time." It irritates me when she constantly reminds me things I already know, because I require less reminding than our kids do. It's not like I'm going to forget to take Jordan to his swimming lesson at five. Or the fact Bridget will be coaching Ebony's hockey team before she heads off to watch her sister's basketball game this evening. But she's always reminded me about this and that, and I've long learnt to accept it as one of her quirks.

"Great, thanks," she replies, "You locked the backdoor, right?"

Bridget stops for a second when I face her and say, "I did. And everything's off, okay. I saw you check."

She nods, giving me a sheepish smile, taking a breath or two, her eyes on mine, and I give her a smile of my own. We lean in and share a very chaste goodbye kiss on the lips, which doesn't last even a fraction as long as I wish it would. And this is our habit, again, almost like clockwork, and I'm aware our little goodbye kisses are the only kisses we've shared since we last made love, many months ago.

"Hey," I say, right as she's about to go to the kids at the car.

"Hey, what?" She looks slightly surprised at my little variation to our routine.

"Good luck with your grant application."

It's not exactly what I'd wanted to say.

"Thanks, I'm not sure if I'll submit it today, but I'll need to do it by tomorrow night at the latest." Bridget's tone suggests a little uncertainty, something I reckon I'd only detect. She's not felt one-hundred percent confident about continued funding at work and I know she'll still agonise over the penultimate final-Final-FINAL draft of her grant.

She definitely needs a pick me up, so I do say what I've wanted to say since I saw her enter the kitchen this morning. "I really like your skirt. I think you look amazing."

A flash of confusion or more uncertainty crosses my wife's face before she smiles her lovely smile. "Thanks. I didn't think you noticed?"

"Nah, I did notice. I always do. You still got it goin' on and you know it. You look gorgeous."

Again she looks confused, giving me a quizzical look, still with a slight smile, but perhaps she's wondering if I'm serious or wondering where my sudden unsolicited compliments comes from. Even if she was going to say something, Ebony interrupts, calling from where she stands with Jordan by our red Volkswagen Golf station wagon, "Come on, Mum and Dad, we'll be late for school, and Dad, you'll miss your bus!"

"We better get going, ay," I say, nodding in the direction of our kids. "She's serious, calling us mum and dad rather than mummy and daddy."

"Yeah, our little girl's growing up."

Despite the short distance from the front door to the car, for a moment I think Bridget's going to take my hand, but she doesn't. And I don't take hers, though I do consider it and wonder how she'd react if I did.

~0~

I know you're not here to read about my job. Nope, I didn't think so, you're here for hot, graphic sex, and some romantic love. Well, I might have mentioned somewhere above that this story's about a married couple doing married couple things, so you might get the things you want to read about, eventually. I sincerely hope so, for my sake. But as they say, good things come to those who wait, and in the meantime I guess you should know what I do for a crust, for the sake of the story, and maybe for getting to know me better.

I'm government agent.

Ha, no, not an agent like a spy or major official, but a simple public servant or perhaps bureaucrat, a term which conjures up bad connotations these days. But there's nothing bad about what I do, except it's a very boring job which I actually used to enjoy, because it was an opportunity to expand my horizons, or some crap like that. A town planner by training, I work for the State Government as a mid-level public servant, where I liaise with local government and sometimes the Commonwealth too. Blah, blah, blah, it's not even remotely interesting. Sometimes I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing.

Actually, a lot of what I seem to do is reading emails and giving single sentence replies, which is what I'm up to right now, sitting at my desk in my windowless office, which actually has a glass wall facing the interior space where my office-less colleagues are working hard or hardly working at their hot-desk cubicles, when I'm interrupted by a knock at my door.

"Hi, Rick, sorry if I'm interrupting."

It's the deputy head of department, Amanda, her accent American, originally from Milwaukee, Wisconsin before she moved to Australia for love, way back in her twenties. Now in her fifties and with a bob of black hair, dyed of course, she doesn't attempt to cover her heavily freckled skin with makeup, because around here no one minds if people have people characteristics. I reply to her interruption with, "Not at all, what's up?"

"Julian's finally given me feedback on James' report."

She says this while holding a document I recognise as James' report, and I inwardly groan because I spy several yellow post-it notes sticking out between pages at the top, and I reckon I can accurately guess what's coming next. Pushing my chair back slightly and swivelling it so I'm facing Amanda, I reply, "What does Julian want us to change?"

Basically, our Head of Department, Julian Alcock, who can be a complete and utter dick, finally read the report, despite the fact it was on his desk and email early last week, and he's decided we should include several additional figures, because, as Amanda relays Julian's words to me, "Politicians and their advisors loose interest with boring figures so they need glossy images and infographs to show our data."

Apparently Julian also said, "The report could use some more pizzazz," a very Julian-esque thing to say.

Unfortunately James is now on leave and I'm his supervisor, and I'd proof-read the bloody report and so did Amanda, where we both agreed it was good-to-go before passing it on up the chain...

It's like, two in the afternoon, the day before we present the report to the minister, who we all know won't even read the bloody thing, and now we have to make several modifications.

Great, this is going to take several hours...

Amanda goes through the four points and we discuss options before she tells me she'll be working back if I need her input and so we can print several new copies for the meeting in the morning. I consider telling her I might as well sleep in the office tonight. I don't say this, but I do tell her, "I can't work later than quarter-past-four because I need to pick my son from after-school care at five and take him swimming."

With an anguished look suggesting she is on the verge of sighing, Amanda says, "I'm supposed to be at home too."

Yeah, but your kids are in their mid-to-late teens and if they did need a fully-fledged adult's help, they can get your eldest to drive them to their father's house...or call the bastard on the phone.

Didn't say it, where I'm dwelling strangely on the fact Amanda's ex-husband, the man who she moved across the world for when she was a much younger woman, mind you, left her in a most cliché manner, having an affair with a younger woman he works with, while he was 'working back' later and later each evening. But he still lives a suburb or two from her place, and now they apparently amicably share the responsibility of raising three teenage children between them.

"Great," I say, shaking my head, no longer giving a fuck about Amanda's private life. "I better get started then."

"Thank you, I'm so sorry about this. Call Bridget and blame me if you like."

The expression on Amanda's face is sincere and I know she's annoyed at Julian too. I give her a nod, understanding it's not her fault Julian's a thorough prick, and she leaves. I decide to get cracking rather than call Bridget, who smiles beautifully at me from the photo of her and the kids on my desk.

Opening my electronic copy of the report's final draft, it's glossy front page stares back at me from the screen.

Charging towards sustainability: increasing the accessibility of Queensland's electric vehicle infrastructure.

Below the title is a photo of a blue Tesla speeding down some generic highway through the red-soiled outback somewhere. I'd come up with the Charging towards sustainably bit of the title. James and I laughed about trying to include the word sustainability in the report as many times as possible, thereby making it more attractive to the target audience, the local councils, who we, the State Government, were encouraging to increase the electronic vehicle charging stations across the state; and the Commonwealth ministers who'd hopefully fork over the cash to do so.

It's a balancing act.

So is racing against the clock, which isn't exactly what I had in mind this afternoon. Murphy pays a visit, because of course the mischievous bastard does. Murphy of Murphy's Law fame, if you're wondering what I'm on about. Actually, I finish the last figure by ten-past-four, but can't find Amanda, who isn't in her office. Tapping my foot vigorously as I leave two voice messages on her phone, which she wasn't answering, I then email her the file, thinking to hell with it, it's in her hands now, then begin to gather my things into my backpack for the commute home, checking the time.

Amanda calls the moment I'm heading out, right on quarter-past-four. "Sorry, Rick, I was predisposed."

She was on the toilet, I'm sure of it. Whatever, doesn't matter, because she asks me to drop by her office so we can go over the last figure. I remind her I urgently need to leave, and she assures me it will take a minute or two, I agree, she agrees my modifications look good, so I don't need tell her I wasn't going to stay back any longer to change it if it wasn't up to scratch. She says she'll print the copies for our meeting, and I say, "Great, thanks," because I certainly don't have the time to do it myself, then I'm in the lift and out the building.

Twenty-past-four. I'd miss my bus unless I ran, and the next one should be in fifteen minutes. I could catch a taxi or Uber. Good idea, I'm not running for shit. I'd probably have a heart attack, anyhow. You'd never think to look at me I ran a couple of marathons ten or more years ago. For fun. Fuck...

Uber, the clock ticking, time not stopping for anyone, but the fucking traffic stops everyone.

Fucking bastards, someone should do a better job at planning this city! Actually, the busways aren't too bad, hence I use them, except on this day when I need to pick up my kid in a hurry.

At twenty-minutes-to-five I bite the bullet and call Bridget, who answers, "Hey, Honey, I'm coaching, but what's up?"

"I'm in an Uber stuck in traffic, and I actually don't think I'll get to Jordy's school by five. I'm really sorry."

"No. Not tonight, I'm coaching Ebby's hockey and have plans afterwards. You know this." The disappointment in her voice is tangible, like I can feel it coming through the phone and into my ear, turning my guilt-meter to eleven.

I'm nodding and exhale loudly, looking at all the cars surrounding me, going nowhere. "Bridge, I've...look...I'm trying, I can't make this traffic move any quicker."

"I'm literally coaching Ebony's team right now. I can't up and leave them." There's a curt edginess to her voice, which is a forced whisper, and I suppose she doesn't want the girls to hear her conversation she's having with her rather disappointing other half. This is not good. I love my wife so much, but she doesn't like little surprises. Not surprises like this.

"Don't worry about it, I'll get...," Who the fuck do I get to pick my seven year old son up from after school care and take him to his swimming lesson, all at short notice, mind you? "I'll get Mum to take Jordy to swimming."

"How's your mum going to make it across town in peak hour, especially if the traffic's as bad as you say?"

"She'll do it if we need her to."

I hear Bridget's loud exhale through the phone. She's pissed at me and rightly so, I suppose. A moment later she says, "No, don't worry about it. I'll sort something out."

"Like what?"

"Don't worry, I'll sort it. Just get...home."

"I need to know what you're thinking, Bridge, come on."

Silence for another moment, then she says, "I'll text you."

"Thanks, Bridge. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well, you should be."

She can't see me nodding, but I do and say, "Hey..."

"Hey, what?"

"I love you."

I hear her snort and wonder if she's smiling or frowning. Frowning would be the correct response in this circumstance. But sometimes she smiles at anything, even when the chips are down. Honestly though, if our situations were reversed I'd be frowning. But she replies, "I love you too. But please don't be too late this time."

This time...

Yep, I've been late before. Honestly, this is not entirely my fault, but I need to own it. I pushed boundaries despite having more responsibilities than my job. Like my son, sitting there waiting for Daddy, who he's noted this very morning is always working. Perhaps I should've run for the bus where the busways remain traffic free. Can't change things now, though.

After hanging up, I close my eyes, glad my Uber driver is wisely opting out of engaging in conversation, wondering if Bridget will complain to Cara about how I let her down.

After ten or so minutes my phone buzzes and beeps, notifying me I've received a text. It's Bridget, who informs me: I've picked up J and taking him to the pool. I need you to pick up Eb from Skye Hudson's. Text me when you arrive there. If you're not there before J finishes his lesson, I'll drop him over there too.

Great, poor Bridget has left her coaching of Ebony's hockey team, probably leaving the girls to the responsibility of her young-but-level-headed and enthusiastic offsider, Indira, to fetch Jordan and take him to his swimming lesson. Ebony is going home with her friend Skye, and I'm still a good twenty to thirty minutes away, which probably means Bridget will have to drop Jordan off at Skye's too.

Cool, thanks, I'm really so very sorry, I reply, wondering if I should drop in another, sorry and perhaps an I love you. But I don't, because Bridget isn't stupid, even if I am.

I do add, Enjoy your night out, and Bridget's lack of reply causes me think if sending my last message was wise, or wondering if she's extra pissed off at me. Except Bridget doesn't really do pissed off. Annoyed perhaps, upset maybe, and disappointed too, but not angry pissed off. But I'll still know about it, I'm sure.

~0~

I know Bridget is coming through the door before I hear her, because the dogs lift their heads from the rug in the middle of the lounge room at the sound of her pulling into the driveway, then they're trotting to the front door with wagging tails, waiting patiently.

Looking up from my tablet, the door opens and the dogs get pats and many words of love, and I get, "I'm so pissed off at you."

She walks towards me like a warrior queen, lips pursed tight, eyes glaring through her glasses, flanked by her two wolves, one furry and black and white and staring up at her with adoring eyes, the other limping slightly behind, short creamy-brown haired and looking to me.

This is bad. Very bad. I'm up to my neck in so much shit right now.

"I am so very sorry," I say, taking my socked feet from the coffee table.

Her eyes bore into me and I wish she'd smile.

Smile, Bridge, you always smile, even when things are not entirely okay...

She doesn't smile, indicating things are much further along than not entirely okay, but does give a slight nod, gesturing to my drink on the lounge chair's armrest, because she says, "Is that Scotch or Bourbon?"

My mind poses the real question she's asking, her voice even in my head: How many drinks is this?

Just my second, I swear!

Because it can never be only one, right? Yeah, don't tell anyone they were double shots either, or maybe a bit more.

"Jack Daniels, so technically not Bourbon..."

She sits at my side and holds out her hand and says, "Whatever, gimmee."

I think there's a hint of playful humour in her voice when she says gimmee, not matching the pissed off vibes I'm getting from her. But I'm not going to argue, handing her my crystal whiskey glass which currently contains maybe half a nip.

The dogs lie at our feet while I watch her smell my drink and take a sip, this girl of my dreams who doesn't mind a dram of pure neat whiskey, and I hope it's the right medicine for us and our latest issue. Swallowing, but not relinquishing my glass, she looks at my tablet and asks, "The report you're presenting to the minister in the morning?"

"Yep, the one and only."

Yes, I know, I'm working after hours again...sorry.

She takes another sip, staring straight ahead now, and when I look at where her gaze falls, there's our TV on the wall, which is not switched on, but our likeness is reflected dimly on the dark screen. A man and woman, husband and wife, sitting together on their lounge. Look at them, us, me with my tablet in hand and her with my glass of JD, dogs laying at our feet each side of the coffee table. She's thinking, I know she's thinking, and I know he's overthinking, because he is me, wondering about all the things she's thinking, knowing it's about how he, her husband, me, let her down this afternoon because he couldn't leave work on time and made poor decisions, and how much work he brings home some nights, and how much he drinks while he does said work.