Searching for Perfection

Exhaling loudly, switching my tablet off and placing it on the armrest, I turn to Bridget, who's still looking straight ahead. "I'll say I'm sorry a million times if it'll make you less pissed at me. Or I won't say it again if that works better, but I'll still think it a million times. Either way, I wish this afternoon went to plan and I didn't get caught in traffic. I thought an Uber would get me to Jordan's school quicker, it was a bad decision, and like I said, I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't mean it," she says, her voice gentle now, almost a whisper. "Maybe there was an accident or something, but I...I'm stressed out too."

Am I off the hook?

"Everything okay?" I ask instead. She's still looking ahead, thinking. After a moment or three I look to her and ask, "What ya thinking?"

I watch her close her eyes, purse her lips before biting her bottom lip, and then she says, "Cara and Manny are separating."

Whoa, unexpected news, and for some reason my heart starts thumping. This is not right, not Cara and Manny. "Separating or separated already?"

I can see the anguish on Bridget's face, where she's biting her lip again, and to be honest, I feel a tad nauseous. She says, "Cara's actually decided to leave him but hasn't done so yet."

"Why? Like, why? Did he cheat on her?" Seriously, why else would she leave him, he's a bloody great bloke.

Bridget shakes her head. "No, Cara didn't say Manny cheated, and I think I'd be the first she'd talk to if he did. And she didn't cheat, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't."

I totally was. Or at least, the thought did cross my mind in less than an instant.

Bloody hell, Bridget's little sister, Cara Bland, who like all the Bland women is not bland in the slightest, where it sounds like she is leaving Emmanuel, her partner of...eleven years now, I think.

A Spaniard, Emmanuel, or Manny as we call him, was her Contiki tour guide in Europe, where they commenced a passionate fling-turned-love affair, where he left his job to follow her through the rest of Europe, parts of north-Africa, then North and South America, and ultimately back here to Brisbane, where they didn't get married, but they did buy a house and they did have a son, Luca.

Fucking hell, we visited Cara and Manny a couple of weekends ago and we ate and drank on their deck, and chatted and laughed together while Ebony and Jordan kicked a soccer ball with four year-old Luca in their yard. How or why did this happen?

"I know they've fought through the Covid years, especially after he lost his job and desperately wanted to get back to see his family when they were sick," Bridget says, still looking ahead. "And you know about her miscarriages before and after Luca was born, but...she didn't say these things, but I think these issues are getting to them. She did say she wasn't...satisfied, but was pretty vague, like implying they weren't going anywhere."

"Where were they supposed to go?"

Sighing, Bridget says, "I don't know?"

"Well this news sucks."

"It totally sucks."

Do we suck? Are you not satisfied? Could we be laughing together with family or friends one day, then you leaving me out of the blue the next?

Truth be told, I don't want that outcome, ever. But I don't feel one-hundred percent secure about us. I wish I was the secure dude who knew with one-hundred percent certainty my brilliant and gorgeous wife with who I've shared life with for fifteen years, married for twelve of them, was one-hundred percent satisfied being with me, even when I occasionally work late or bring my work home, or forget we were supposed to be going somewhere, or I'm accidently late, or some other thing or issue which I think is minor but she doesn't. But I'm not, I can't help it.

We're part of the machine, she and I, both juggling work and family, looking for a balance, discarding some of the things important to who we are, sometimes feeling like a failure. Rarely touching one another anymore. Rarely sharing intimacy beyond a quick goodbye peck on the lips or bump of skin when we swap places in the shower while on our rush towards the daily grind.

I'll tell you what though, I do know with one-hundred percent certainty how deeply I love Bridget Magee, née Bland, and the thought of losing her is the worst thought only equal to losing our kids.

I hate when my mind goes down this rabbit hole. I need another drink. Or to quit drinking. Yes, quitting drinking is probably what I should do.

Presently, I should say something, the silence deafening while she swallows the last drops of my Jack Daniels, now holding the empty glass. Reaching out, I take it from her, our fingers brushing in the process, physical contact, and she finally looks at me and gives me a slight smile, and I take her hand in mine, resting them on her thigh.

"Do you want to talk some more?"

Another little smile forms on her lips, Bridget shakes her head. "Not now. I'm wrecked and need to sleep. And you need to wake early to get off to your meeting. Wouldn't want to be late for that, would you, Honey." She says these final words with a proper grin.

"Come on," I say, softly, standing, our hands still clasped. She lets me lead her, giving my hand a gentle squeeze and I squeeze back.

Our squeezes have always meant, I love you.

~0~

FRIDAY

In my dream Bridget is whispering something to me, but I can't quite make out what she's saying, and something is pressing against my hair, and now her whispers are louder, breathy, literally her breath is on my ear too.

"Wakey wakey. I think you forgot to set your alarm."

This is real life, not a fantasy or dream at all, and I groan slightly, opening my eyes, my first sight of the day being the empty whiskey glass on the bedside table where I'd obviously placed it last evening. The reminder of why my mouth is dry, why most mornings are a struggle.

Turning to face Bridget, who's retreating back to her side of the bed, I'm almost blinded by her bedside lamp, casting a too-bright-for-this-hour whiteness around the room. I mean, it has a soft setting for Christ's sake, use it!

Something moves behind me, breathing in my other ear, so I turn back to come face to face with a wet nose at the end of a weathered muzzle, and doggy breath. "Good morning, Arrow," I whisper and Arrow rests his head on the bed, wagging his tail, and he's joined by an exuberant Peggy, who tries to push the old boy out the way to get at the pats I'm giving out.

Eventually I'm sitting, yawning and rubbing my eyes, thinking I'd love to go back to sleep for another hour or two. Peggy has no trouble with being awake, racing around the bed between me and Bridget, who's pulling her multi-coloured active wear leggings up her long legs in the glare of the lamp.

"Hey, you, out of it," she says as Peggy starts mouthing and play bowing, letting out a low whine, excited because she knows she'll be harnessed up and going for her morning run in the next few minutes.

Bridget gives a slight chuckle, then removes her pyjama top, revealing her lovely breasts. They haven't changed much over the past fifteen years, still round and firm, pokey nipples sticking from pinky-brown areolas, but I'm sure Bridget has mentioned stretch marks in recent times. I hardly notice the stretch marks and of course I'm still enthralled by her breasts.

Actually, you may have gathered I'm still enthralled by all of her. I love my wife, she's perfect beyond all description. Okay, sure, no one's perfect, and don't get me wrong, like any couple we've had a few dramas over the years, but Bridget's perfect for me. I felt this right from the night we met, way back at a friend-of-a-friend's party in the backyard of a suburban share house. The host lit a fire in a perforated spinner drum from an old washing machine, drawing many of us in the cool late autumn air, chatting and drinking. I knew less than a handful of people surrounding the fire, and at some point whoever was sitting next to me stood and left the circle, and soon a girl asked me if the vacant seat was taken.

She was tall with big dark eyes under dark arching eyebrows, a happy faced smile upon her lips, brown plaited pony-tail cascading to the small of her back, and her simple figure-hugging black turtleneck top left very little to the imagination as to the curve of two magnificently proportioned breasts...of course I'd already noticed her, like most other fellas at the party, many vying for her attention throughout the evening.

None of the other boys stood a chance, because while I don't normally believe in fate, I make an exception for this particular event, where I'm convinced this amazingly gorgeous girl and I were made for one another and destined to meet. You see, as is my way, I think I made a pretty silly joke about how the seat was single rather than taken, or something equally as bad, where what I said could have put her off sitting with this random bloke with a bad sense of humour, but she giggled and sat next to me, where we simply began chatting and laughing, discovering we clicked like we'd never clicked with anyone before.

Later she'd confess she'd only planned to stay at the party for a few hours, but ended up talking with me by the fire long into the early hours until the sun rose, something I think of as the beginning of the greatest love story in history. At least for the two of us. And the thing is, at that time in my life I wasn't looking for love and neither was she, and neither of us were trying to impress each other. Like they say, love happens when you're least looking for it. On the night of the party we were two people whose lives collided, destined to share life's adventures and grow old together...

"Earth to Rick." Bridget snaps her fingers in front of my face. "For a moment there I thought you were staring at my boobs, but you're kinda spaced out. You're thinking of your meeting, aren't you?"

I look to her, briefly seeing her belly button between abs in the space below her sports bra supporting and covering-but-not-hiding the curve of her breasts, and then I look further, finding her eyes, gorgeous dark windows to her soul, which I cannot get enough of, this woman I fell head-over-heals in love with by a fire in an old washing machine drum at a party fifteen years ago. Her face has the questioning look she sometimes gives me, and I say, "Not work, I was thinking of something else, sorry."

"You weren't ogling my boobs?" There's a trace of humour in her voice.

Rubbing my eye I say, "I, um, was thinking about growing old."

"Oh," she says, sounding a little surprised, maybe a bit miffed. I wait for her to mention my whiskey glass, but instead she grins and says, "It's the grey hairs coming through, isn't it?"

"Yeah, totally," I laugh, standing, giving her a grin and going to her side, running my fingers through her hair. "It's all these thousands of grey hairs. Oh, look, here's one. No, wait, it's just light brown. Oh, this one, nope, a darker brown."

"Don't even joke about it. And I meant your hair, Mr salt and pepper." She turns towards the bedroom door, throwing on her loose fitting black-singlet. "Anyway, you do have a meeting to get ready for, you don't want to be late."

"I kind of don't want to go at all."

"But you will, because you're good at what you do."

I'm grateful for her confidence in me, and even more grateful for her smile.

She walks towards our bedroom door, her long leggings accentuating her calves, thighs, the roundness of her bum, the curve of her hips. Her singlet now covers her skin at the small of her back, but the skin of her shoulders is still visible, some freckles there. Last night I planted a gentle kiss goodnight there on her left shoulder, right before we'd climbed into bed, knowing she was still upset about her sister's news.

Well practiced hands flick hair into a loose pony tail with a hair tie which will inevitably end up on the floor or vanity sink, and at some point later it will end up in one of our dog's mouths. Falling to just above her shoulder blades, her hair isn't as long as she wore it when we met, and now as a pony tail it sits even higher.

"Hey, Bridge," I say, and I catch her eyes when she faces me right in our doorway. "Thanks for waking me."

She smirks her cute little smirk. "Forgetting to set your alarm is a sign of growing old, old man, but lucky you have me to help you out."

And a sign of drinking too much, my mind adds.

"Yeah, lucky me," I say with a slight shake of my head and a smile, actually meaning it today because I am lucky to have her, but I've delivered the message with a hint of sarcasm to keep her guessing. Overtly shifting my gaze to her chest, I continue, hopefully with a disarming smile rather than a sleazy leering one, but I hope to make a joke out of the truth, because it's my way. "Oh, and I was checking you out. You look great, Bridge. Even if you do have a few grey hairs creeping in."

She almost laughs, I'm sure, then shakes her head, gives an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, and I chuckle, and she turns and calls for Peggy to follow her.

Arrow starts after them with his waddling gait, and I say, "Hey, old boy," and he turns and looks to me with his wise old puppy dog eyes, wagging his tail now, and I pat his head. "I think the girls will leave us old men in their dust these days, don't you?"

He sits and lays his head on the edge of the bed, which is about as much as we've ever encouraged our dogs to be on our furniture, and when I stretch and yawn and walk into the ensuite, he slowly follows, laying on the floor right outside the door, looking up at me while start my ritual, preparing to shave.

Tired green eyes in the mirror stare back at me, greying stubble on fuller cheeks and seemingly rounder jaw than in my more angular-cut younger days, light blondish-brown curly bed hair increasingly replaced with salt and pepper grey, exactly like Bridget implied. I don't think it's Bridget who ever has to worry about her looks, and I don't normally worry about mine until I look in the mirror like this.

Note to self: stop looking in mirrors.

I think, or know I'm overdue for some maintenance. And come to think of it, Bridget and I are overdue for some maintenance too, I reckon. I don't want her second guessing our relationship in a similar way to how her sister is apparently doing so in her own relationship. Bridget and I should work at us some more, because it doesn't seem to come as easy to us in this busy day and age like it once did when we got it right most of the time without seemingly having to try too much. Right, I'll start by smoothing my stubble face.

~0~

Okay, so there's only one thing you need to know about the meeting this morning, which is, I told you so. The minister barely looked at the report, flicking through a few pages while we discussed things, not even stopping to look at the pretty figures and info graphs I'd added and modified, all before handing the additional copies to one of his staffers.

We talked the talk, saying all the right things, knowing this was a game, where we were in full sales mode, even if the whole project was part of an ongoing commitment by the State Government to provide sustainable infrastructure, future proofing the...

Jesus Christ, I'm still in bloody meeting with government minister mode!

Bottom line, we finished with the shaking of many hands and giving copious smiles, then walked out of the room knowing the bureaucrats and other public servants like Amanda and myself will continue or take over proceedings, doing the real work behind the scenes.

Now things will proceed at government pace, which is mostly the opposite of fast, and the politicians will only come out to play again when it's time to make positive announcements at opening ceremonies in front of cameras. And let's face it, by then it'll likely be some new minister who's replaced this one in the next election cycle.

Fuck. That. Off.

I check my phone for missed calls and messages, having felt it buzz in my pocket during the meeting. It's a text from one of my oldest friends, Rob, simply asking, Liquid lunch, Victory Hotel, 12?

Yes. I didn't even hesitate to respond.

Great, see you there, mate.

"Rick, great job on the meeting, I really appreciate the work you did yesterday," Amanda says while I pocket my phone.

"No worries, Mandy. We did it, it's over, even if they didn't open the report."

"I know," she says, nodding in a knowing and perhaps exasperated manner. "But we can move forward now."

"Yes. Great. I'm excited."

Woo!

I'm not really excited, just tired.

"Yes, we live in exciting times." She looks at her watch, a new Garmin I'd noticed, stating, "Would you look at the time, it's eleven thirty already."

"Time flies when you're having fun, ay."

She chuckles. "I'm feeling quite hungry, would you like join me for a bite to eat?"

"Ah, sorry, Mandy," I say, screwing my face up apologetically, "I'm already heading out for lunch. Catching up with an old school mate."

"Oh, no problems then, I'll get something on the way back to the office." She actually looks disappointed and for a moment I think of telling her we'll do it some other time, but before I do she smiles and tells me, "I'll see you back there."

"Sure, I'll be back after lunch. Probably around one to one-thirty. But you should take the afternoon off, you totally deserve it after staying back last night." I give her a grin, adding, "I give you permission."

She smiles, giving a cheeky look, and says, "I might just do it. But unfortunately Julian wants to go over some things this afternoon..."

Because of course he does... "Yeah, well, don't let him keep you too long, you totally deserve a break. You were back till after six last night, right?"

"Six-thirty. And you deserve a break too, Rick," she says. "Thanks again for the work you did yesterday. I really do appreciate it. Take a day off next week, you've earned it."

"Yeah, thanks, I'll think about it."

"No, you take a day off, because I know how many extra hours you put in."

"We all do and will continue to do so for as long as governments need us."

She laughs. "Or they discard us in some departmental shake up."

"They'll never get rid of you, Mandy. You're the glue holding us together."

"Sucking up to the boss will get you everywhere," she says with a smirk.

"Maybe I should try this tactic with Bridget sometime." My comment was flippant and immediately annoys me for some reason I can't put my finger on. Maybe because Bridget was on my mind all morning?

Amanda's smile is warm at the mention of Bridget. "How is your delightful wife?"

"She's great." I mean, what else could I say? "She's busy with a whole bunch of things on the go, but, I don't know, she's brilliant. I don't think she's appreciated enough at her work though and I wish they'd give her a more permanent contract, she bloody deserves it."

"Ah, you two. It's so lovely to hear a man complimenting his wife like you do. I don't think Kevin ever said anything complimentary about me in our twenty-four years of marriage."

Twenty-four years and no compliments? Surely not. But whatever the truth is, she didn't feel the love from Kevin, even before he pursued one of the young women from his office. His loss, because Amanda's great.

"I couldn't fault her even if I tried," I say, talking about Bridget of course. Then I chuckle. "Well, almost, she has one fault. She dated a Rugby League player for a few months, but it was when she was nineteen, a couple of years before she met me."

And I can tell you, she dodged a serious bullet there, but I ain't going into it. Bridget herself made the joke this former boyfriend was her one fault when I once told her she is perfect, but I shouldn't have even brought it up with someone else, where Bridget would be horrified. I should keep my fucking mouth shut sometimes.