The Woman He Loves

It is morning.

I wake up to the sound of her footsteps. I open one eye and follow her feet as they walk from the side of the bed to the bathroom. Her naked soles touch the cold floor with every step. I look further up and see her long and shapely legs, arrogantly showing off from her short nightgown. She has wonderful legs, the most majestic I have ever seen.  

Mornings are the only sacred times of the day where I get to see her so bare. It’s a beautiful privilege to see her like this: no makeup, no fancy clothes, no high-heels -- just her and her unpretentious vulnerability. The sun rays hit her skin and to my eyes she shines more than anything. I love mornings. Mornings are when she is most beautiful.

I turned my head sheepishly to follow her with my gaze. She sees me looking and smiles. She tilts her head slightly to the side and says, “Good morning, sweetie.” I love her voice, it is my favourite sound in the world. I cannot only hear it, but taste it and smell it and feel it. As a taste, it is like honey. As a smell, it is like lavender. As a feeling, it is like a warm summer day. I respond to her with a grin and go back to lying down, watching her brush her teeth through the open bathroom door.

She shuts the door so that I know it is time for her bath. I hear the shower running from the inside, mingling deliciously with the sound of her voice singing some tune I heard once on the radio. I nestle my head on my hands and relish the sound of her singing.

A few minutes later she gets out of bathroom, a cloud of steam following behind her. She is in her bathrobe, her hair twisted on the top of her head with a towel. Again, I follow her feet as she walks towards her dresser to get her clothes. When she passes me, she touches me and says my name. I nod to her. Her back to me, I watch her dry her hair and paint her face and ease down to her pointy shoes. Then she faces me and it’s like seeing a whole new person, but no, because I know that underneath she is one and the same.

She walks out of the bedroom to the kitchen and I follow her. Her back to me, she rummages through her kitchen things and comes back with our breakfast: hers one cup of sweet coffee and mine a decent morning meal. She lays my food on the table, the smell of her coffee permeating the whole kitchen as I ate it. In the morning we take our time. I chew my food slowly as she takes deliberate sips from her cup, neither one of us making any other sound until we both finish.

She stands up, her bag on one shoulder. I just stand there, my heart filled with that familiar longing that always comes when the morning is over. I walk towards her, only to feel the heat of her body against mine. “You be good now, ok?” she tells me as she walks towards the door and closes it behind her, her heels tip-tapping on the cold floor.

It is noon.

Noons are long and lonely when she’s out of the house. Her smell lingers even after she leaves but after a while it disappears and the longing in my chest will start welling up again. There is nothing much that I do during the day. Sometimes the bird from the outside comes to visit me, forever pestering me with the sound of her tweeting, so then I just scowl at it and it flies away. Sometimes the neighbour’s cat come tapping at the kitchen window to invite me to join her on her daily adventures, but I respectfully decline and go back to my bed. Sometimes I pretend to catch the sunlight with my hands but I never do so after a while I get tired of it. I then busy myself listening to the sound of traffic outside, imagining her voice calling me and telling me she’s back. She doesn’t get back for a long time. It is the longest part of the day and she is not with me. I can only recreate her image on my mind until I get to see her again. Sometimes it makes me so sad. I do not like noons so much.

It is night.

When the world gets dark and the street lamps wake up I know she is close to getting home. I wait patiently beside the door, my ears searching for the tip-tapping of her shoes on the hallway. I hear it, so I straighten up to greet her. I hear the click on the door and I pounce excitedly at her. “I’m home,” she says to me and I touch her cheek.

Her smell changes a little whenever she gets back. Today she smells of strawberries and champagne and the slightest hint of vehicle smoke from the outside. But I hug her just the same because I miss her so much.

She always has another bag with her when she comes home, and I know it’s a treat for both of us, for dinner. After we eat, she takes off her shoes, sits on the couch and I snuggle up to her. She would turn on the TV, watching as she caresses the top of my head, telling me the details of her day in between commercials.

Sometimes I wish I had arms so I can wrap it around her shoulders. I wish I had fingers so I can hold her hand in mine. I wish I had lips so I can kiss her again and again. I wish I had a tongue that can tell her how beautiful I think she is no matter the time of day, and how happy she is making me just by being around.  Maybe then, I could make her feel less alone.

But I only have feet to walk towards her, paws to touch her, a tongue to lick her face again and again, a tail to wag to tell her how happy I am,  a warmth to show her how much she means to me.

“I love you, buddy.” she says to me, feeling her lips on my head.  

I curl up closer to her body and raise my head for my snout to reach her cheek, the only way I can tell her that I love her back, perhaps even more than she knows.

My heart... it belongs to her. Every single beat of it.