When it Came Through the Door Pt. 12

Work was busy, and apparently so was my wife. Somehow, while we'd both been focused on our careers, our shared domestic duties, sleep patterns, nightly television, or books, or separate long walks or runs, we'd stopped having sex completely.

One Sunday morning, as the sun burst through the thin curtains and splashed across our bed and illuminated our bedroom, I reached over and hugged her, pushing my dick into her backside. She mumbled something about needing the bathroom, then slid out of bed, leaving me to realise that this had been happening a lot.

I hoped she'd return, but she didn't. Without looking at me, she smiled and said she was making coffee, put a robe on and went off.

When had my wife started wearing a singlet and panties to bed?

My heart sank and I panicked. Did she know?

For a while I lay in bed, I tried to think about our relationship, and where things had gone wrong, but all I could remember was that my wife and I had transitioned to friends.

We were the best of friends, there was no arguing that, but somewhere along the way, we stopped being lovers.

I got up, and went to the kitchen naked.

She took one look at my cock, and turned away, and said. "Put some clothes on!"

Walking up to the counter, I put my hands on it and watched her. "Because my nudity disgusts you?"

She froze, and slowly turned to look back at me. Her expression was that of someone who's conflicted. "What?"

But the coffee machine kicked in and the coffee started spurting out into the cup she'd prepared.

"Can we talk?"

I was feeling brave, but we needed to have this chat and find out what was going on.

"Oh honey, let's do this later. I need to go catch up with my sister, we're going to the..."

"...going to the where?" I asked, rounding the counter towards her, arms folded and realising that things were worse than they seemed.

"...markets..." she threw in, while busying with the coffee.

Each time I tried to engage her, she moved to give me the coffee, then make herself one, then grabbed her phone, then moved away to the lounge and sat, deep into her phone.

I tried to engage her several times but she either brushed me off or blanked me completely.

Even though I felt panicked, I showered, changed, and left the house. I drove for a while, trying to clear my head, then realised I needed to run. So I got out of the car, and ran at a random park that was on the perimeter of some nice woods.

Through that day, I messaged her a couple of times, and for the first time, I realised her messages were abrupt or short, and always ended with little kisses, but they seemed automated and designed to cut off further conversation.

That had been going for a while, but I had been too busy hiding my indiscretions to realise we'd drifted this far apart.

"I love you," I text her back, and when she gave me a simple little, "x," my heart went cold.

That night, we watched a movie, and I massaged her feet, but her attention wasn't on me.

The more I tried to get closer to her, the more she seemed to drift away from me.

I began to notice our sleeping patterns, and how she was practically slept on the edge at her end, and usually moved her feet away a few seconds after mine found them, or how in the night I'd reach out and touch her, and she'd roll over, flinging my arm off her.

Each action drove spears through my heart, and each spear was accompanied by a feeling I'd come to know really well.

Guilt.

This was all my fault. I'd caused all of this.

And then my life completely fell apart.

That following Friday, I'd gone in to the office for meetings, and two drinks after work with a colleague. My life at this point was spiralling into a dark place because I knew something was wrong and I didn't know how to fix it. Even as I sat with my work colleague I normally bantered with over beers, and usually laughed so hard we got gut-ache, I wallowed in my own self-pity. He noticed it and commented on it, and when we left, it was with an awkwardness neither of us had ever experienced.

He gave me a quick confused glance before he fled to his car and his weekend.

I messaged Helena to let her know I'd be home around 8, and she didn't respond. I tried to call her, and her phone was switched off.

When I got home, I saw the note on the kitchen counter with a bottle of my favourite wine.

"I'm sorry. x."

I dropped to the floor and felt my world heave around me. Then I ran to the bedroom, and realised instantly she'd packed.

All her things were gone.

That heavy, cold blanket that descended on me carried with it the memories of my wife. It was as if it needed to ensure I experienced every moment with clarity, that I understood the ramifications of her leaving me, and that I should recall every wonderful, happy moment we'd shared together.

As I clutched that note, as though within it I could pray her back, and her scent surrounded me, and her smile, and that wonderful glint when she was being cheeky appeared in my mind, and images of when she laughed at stupid things only I also found funny managed to ingrain themselves into my vision.

I cried -- no, I sobbed. Heavy, wracking sobs that shook me. At some point I slid on the tiles and lay on the floor, and cried, and begged to an empty kitchen for her to come back, as I clutched the note.

Occasionally, I'd call her again, I'd text her, and cry some more, all the while her response was the same it had been for weeks.

Silent.

Somehow I slept a couple hours, and woke up with a feeling like a hangover, and a headache, and sore back from the cold tiles. I roamed the small house, I turned the television on, I gazed pointlessly at the contents of my fridge, knowing full well I'd probably never have an appetite again, and cried some more.

When I stood facing my open fridge, I cried. Not because the contents distressed me, but because Helena and I hand-picked each of the items in there and usually conferred with what to do with them.

Vivek called me.

"Hey Rog, how you doing?"

I sobbed, and told him Helena had left me.

I heard him sigh, then he said. "I know mate. Marianne told me."

"Wait! What? Where is she? Is she with you guys?" The fog temporarily lifted with a dash of hope.

He took a deep breath. "No mate. She's staying with...a friend, I believe. Listen, do you want to come here and hang with us? Or we could come to you?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm not good company mate."

Perhaps he hung up, or I did, or the battery died, but I left the phone on the counter by the fridge and moved to the couch.

The pain was real, and I found it increasingly more difficult to breathe.

A knock on the door scared the shit out of me and I bolted from the couch with optimism.

Why would she knock when she had keys?

But I opened the door, hoping -- no, praying to see her standing there.

Vivek with a bottle of wine and a bottle of scotch, along with a box from our favourite Indian restaurant.

Seeing the box made me sob immediately, given it was a regular treat for us on a weekend.

He guided me to the lounge and sat me down, put a plate filled with hot, delicious-smelling food in front of me and a large, generous portioned glass of red wine next to it before sitting next to me with an equally portioned glass of wine in his own hand.

We didn't toast to anything, I guess the situation was too bleak.

I cried, and Vivek sat next to me. He went through his wine as though he needed it more than I did. Perhaps he was thinking that he was glad it was me and not him. But I avoided his eyes, because in them I could see my reflection more clearly than was good for me at that time.

When I picked at the food, I sobbed. Vivek isn't much of a comforter, but he lightly punched my arm once or twice, or tapped my leg, or picked up my wine glass and put it in my hand.

Alcohol does numb the pain, so I drank a lot of it. When the wine was finished, we found ice and opened the scotch and chatted.

Vivek recalled his heartbreak in university, and I remember him going through it. Yeah he cried a bit, for a few days, but we also drank a lot and focused on things that seemed incredibly important at the time. The conversation reminded me that I'd never really experienced heart break.

At some point Vivek left and I passed out.

I must have slept like a baby because I woke up about 9 hours later with a slight hangover and famished.

Once I ate, tidied up a bit, I returned to the couch where I resumed crying.

When I called in with a sudden need for a week off that following Monday, my boss seemed a bit awkward, and pressed for details. I didn't really want to tell him that Helena had left me, and that I hadn't been able to get a hold of her all weekend, but found myself blurting it out.

Omar knew Helena fairly well, through a variety of work-related social functions and outside work leisure activities, so I wasn't surprised to hear his sharp intake of breath and a fairly long pause.

"Fuck...Rog! I'm so sorry mate....um, listen, you take as long as you need...I mean..." it went on a little bit, and while I appreciated the support, I told him I needed some time alone and quickly hung up.

I hadn't planned to spend the week doing very little, but Monday swung into Tuesday, which collided with Wednesday uneventfully. Food was largely untouched, all alcohol in the house began to evaporate and the couch became my bed.

On Thursday, I woke up to a forecast of high temperatures and a desperate need to leave the house.

I walked.

And walked.

Somehow I wandered through the shopping centre, aimlessly through various shops, picking up the odd item, and returning it without having registered what it was.

Retail therapy works. I purchased a new pair of jeans, a new pair of trainers, several new tops and some socks.

When I got home, I threw the bags into the closet and returned to my full-time job of crying.

When I took a second week off work, Omar reiterated that it wasn't a problem, but I told him that I may log in and do some work remotely if I had the inclination. He said he'd send me some work he needed someone to check over, but stressed that it wasn't urgent.

That Friday night, after ordering Vietnamese takeaway from a restaurant I'd never heard of from across town, with a newly restocked alcohol cabinet, I drank wine and logged in and looked at Omar's files.

Somehow, during my hiatus from work, I'd forgotten that I'd had some urgent and rather important meetings the previous week and that Omar had stepped in and acted on my behalf. With a workload that is neverendingly heavy, I felt almost as much guilt as I did towards Helena.

Omar had said that none of it was urgent, but that was an outright lie. It was all well and truly overdue.

By Saturday 10.am. I'd caught up on my emails and took everything off Omar, before collapsing on the couch. I'd somehow converted my couch into a temporary bedroom, by moving bedding and pillows there and moving the television so I could watch my streaming networks comfortably. I slept through the day, woke up, drank some more, did some more work until exhaustion overwhelmed me.

My daily routine would change, but I essentially worked, slept, tried to call Helena, stalked all her friends on social media for clues to her whereabouts, called her friends, her sister, her brother, got lied to a bunch of times, and finally returned to the business of crying.

Two weeks later, I woke up with a new-found resolve to stop being a dickhead and get back to my life. I returned to work, and got pulled straight into a meeting with Omar.

The slight man, probably twice my age and twice my weight wore a turban and a big smile. "I missed you. Thank you for doing all that extra work. I think you've done half the team's work over the past week alone!" he genuinely looked pleased.

"It's okay, I'm sorry I took so much time off, but I'm much better now."

That conversation told me two things, and that was that Omar was a big fan of my work ethic and that he also thought I looked like shit. He didn't need to say that I looked terrible, but I got clues. The way he checked out my clothing when I looked away, that little half-smile he gave me when I said I was totally fine, but the word 'fine' coming out a little choked, and him looking like he would rush over and hug me. Which I'm glad he didn't because that would have been a whole new level of awkward.

There was also the suggestion that I didn't need to meet with any of the clients and that our junior guys could do that, and I could continue to work from home as much as I wanted.

I took the hint and suggested I'd predominantly work from home and come into the office when I felt stable and well enough. When he mentioned that I didn't need to worry about the clients, I had an urge to yell out that the message had been received loud and clear.

Three weeks after Helena left me, I got a message from Jackson. His message was always tentative, like he was testing the waters, and polite and discrete, like if someone read the message, they'd simply see a guy asking another guy how he was getting on.

I surprised myself and messaged him back, telling him my wife had left me and that I'd been in a really bad place, but I'd be in touch soon.

My expectation was that Jackson would respect this and leave it at that. But Jackson does not play by any rule book I'm aware of.

He rang me.

I'm one of those people who thinks the call feature on phones is old-fashioned and unnecessary. I like messages, and social media, because it's the era that I've been born into and one that I understand. When my phone rings, I stare at it in shock, assuming there's an emergency.

When Jackson rang me, I was halfway through my second glass of wine, a dozen emails into a new project and two slices of pizza down, with several cold slices waiting patiently.

The fact that Jackson called me surprised me only marginally less than the fact that I answered the call. Let's call it an impulse thing, but as I answered it, I smiled. Probably for the first time in weeks.

"You, my wife...well, yeah...Helena, and my mother are the only people who've called me this year Jackson," I started, "and one of those has apparently got a new phone number that I'm not aware of."

"I'm not sure I get your point. But anyway...hello Roger. How you doing?"

"Fucking fantastic, next question?"

"Fancy a drink?"

"No. Next question?"

"Fuck you. What's your address."

"No. I don't need company. I don't fancy company. Not gonna lie, I'm not in a great place. Trying to keep busy with work, and..."

"I didn't ask for your sob story Rog...we've all got one, I asked for your address. Don't worry, I'm not going to try and get into your pants, I'm bringing drinks and a good ear."

I didn't need to think about it. "I'm okay, thank you for the offer. I have plenty of alcohol, and as I said, I need some time to gather my thoughts and process things..."

"...again, didn't ask for your life story or your problems over the phone. I took the time to call you, so therefore, you take the time to invite me over and I do what good friends do, and that's help you move forward. Break-ups are really hard. There's a good chance I'm going to go through one myself soon, so think of this a mutual back-scratch situation, I help you now and you..."

I started to laugh. Jackson was incredible.

"Wait...what? You're shitting me?" I asked, finally giving him my full attention.

"Address?"

My laptop, my wine, my pizza, and my muted television sat in silence and let me decide.

It was only when I exhaled, that I realised I'd been holding my breath.

"You need to understand that the farthest thing from my mind, and the one thing that will make me feel ten times worse is..."

"...sex. Yeah, I know. We've all been there. Now give me your fucking address."