Lonely Wife

by Jordan A. Masters

I pause in front of the window, parting the curtains and peering out at the street for what feels like the fortieth time in two minutes. Still no sign of his car yet. Sighing, I walk back to the couch and sit, staring at the blank TV screen. I’d turn it on, but the remote’s somewhere in the mess around my feet, and I’m not entirely sure I want to clean it up yet.

I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I should just have understood when he got in late—I shouldn’t have assumed he was cheating on me. I bury my face in my hands, shaking. I know I’ll never forgive myself if he never comes back now, if he goes out and cheats on me now. I want to call him and beg him to come home, but the phone’s in the mess on the floor, too.

After a few minutes, I get up and start to pick up the various things on the floor—here’s the phone, the remote, and the now-broken wedding photo he threw at me. I hold the photo for a moment, then put it on the table. He looks so handsome, frozen in time—his untamed hair, his tux, his goofy smile. I can’t help but smile myself, touching the photo gently. A tear falls, blurring my vision for a moment, and I reach for the phone.

I can’t lose him.