The door. A key. B. It must be. Relief and fury that he’s left them so long.
It is Motl. Bursting through the door like he’s been blasted in by some explosive force.
You stagger. Your lovely man, before you.
Back, given back.
How vividly he’s been distilled in his vanishing, in such a short time, to a few precious snippets now riveted into your heart: a photo of him, nonchalant on a country railway track; his smell, hair oil; the burst of his laugh; the luxurious sweep of his handwriting; the way he says ‘yeah’ at you, sceptically; a silly winter hat. The feel of his fingers slipping into your pants after you’ve been loosened by a night out with girlfriends and your insides peel away at his touch — you will always have the sensation of it — your groin softly contracting, then bucking, opening out into his palm, offering wetness. God, that he can still have that effect on you, after fifteen years of marriage, this man, this gift. In the thick of an argument you’ve flung all manner of stupid taunts, ‘I hate you’ and ‘I want a divorce’ and ‘Get me out’ but he knows you never mean it although his eyes are always hurt. So much gratitude unexpressed. That you’ve been so blessed. He is a good man, he has given you so much, and you’ve never properly told him that.
And now, and now.
Returned. To the children. Alive. In one piece. You shut your eyes, all you want to do is hold him, just hold him, breathing him in, then later spoon, silently, in your nightly ritual that has concluded every night of your married life; with your belly pressed into his back and then he whispers ‘seatbelt’ and you obediently turn and offer him the expanse of your own back and his arm slots over yours and he nestles in and exhales a long contented breath as if he has waited all day for this moment of rest. Days. Weeks. And here he is. The marvel of it. The love that is an accumulation of years of conversations and fights and making-ups, a first tremulous flick and matching, extremely cheap wedding rings and Friday night takeaways and weekends in unaffordable hotels but what the heck and concerts where the highly anticipated performer is drunk and grainy ultrasound pictures and labour wards and car trips with ‘Are we there yet?’ endlessly from the back and watching in awe the three children created together, peacefully asleep, and laughter, so much laughter, yes that. The key, you think: that he still makes you laugh. Both of you came to the same conclusion not too far back, that the secret to life is to wring as much happiness as you can out of your time on this earth. And often that happiness is found in the simplest moments.
The four of them. It’s all you need, want.
I thirst.