My Dear,

We've come again to this.  You're in the bedroom slamming drawers and packing suitcases, crying on the phone to your mother.  I can hear the corners of your conversation: "Can you believe it?" and "...should've left years ago."  I think I heard a "worthless son of a bitch" bounce against the closet.  (Let's hope, this time, you leave it on its hinges.)

I wonder what you're wearing.  You ripped your blouse getting out of the car tonight—caught it on that three carat platinum bracelet I bought you for Valentine's Day—so I can't imagine it's survived your vanity.  The bedroom is off limits, of course, but I've seen you angry before—fists tight and nails digging, stomping around in pantyhose and a lace bra.  When you notice a runner you'll curse and hop about until you've tugged the tights off, scowling at those hardwood floors you wanted.  Your diamond earrings are probably thrown bitterly beside your five hundred dollar purse, both trying to find cover under that special edition mahogany bureau.  I'm sure you have every Versace dress packed in its plastic and placed with care across the custom comforter we had to order to match the custom paint marring our once-white walls.  (It still only looks "green" to me.)

You've quieted down now.  I've seen this, too.  You're backed against the bathroom wall, knees to your chest, sobbing beside that picture we took in Nice.  Your hair has run free of its star-bought stylist and is tickling your chin, with one little curl trapped around your nose (the way it used to be when we were in college and Cancun was exotic).  Your mother has since hung up, and you've left the phone atop the toilet.  Any minute now you'll turn the shower on, believing it will mask the tears, and you'll spend the next hour or so sending our hot water (and our money) right down the drain.  Our marriage, however, will meet a different fate.

Closer to morning, in that blue-gray light reserved for young lovers, you'll tip-toe down the stairs and pause on the very last step.  Here, you'll lean as far as you can without letting go of the banister, imagining you're quiet despite the final hiccups of a night gone wrong.  Your voice will tremble through my name, but I won't reply.  You know I'm awake, and I tired of games long ago.  Apologetic and vulnerable, in those cotton pajamas you dug out of your past-lives drawer, you'll wander into the living room and curl up on the couch, thin fingers shaking as they slide around my waist.  You'll nudge your cheek against my chest and close your eyes with a soft sigh, and despite the protestations, defenses, and clever comebacks I've been devising for hours—despite the anger, the hurt, the embarrassment next time we see your mother (Sunday for dinner, right?)—I'll notice your perfume and those adorable ankle socks with the blue teddy-bear border.  I'll feel your wedding band pressed against my ribs and listen to you shudder out the last of your grief—and I'll forgive you.

"I'm sorry," I whisper now in the dark, but you don't hear me.  It's hardly Midnight and the shower's on.  But it's okay; I'll wait.  You've always been well worth waiting for.


Simply,


Yours.