Stages of Grace - By Carey Heywood Page 0,4

for me," Jon says rising, his book now face down on the arm of his chair.

Now that he is standing I can see that he is neatly dressed, wearing slacks and a button-up dress shirt. I want to ask where he is going but know better and feel intense relief at the thought of him not being there. Nodding quickly, I look down. It is impossible to know what reaction I will ever get from him. Currently, he seems indifferent. Jon must have been waiting for me to get home to leave. He puts on his coat and goes to leave. His fingers hesitate over his own keys for a moment before remembering he no longer has a car, and they move to take my keys instead. Part of me rebels within. Why should he get to take my car without asking?

Jon is out the door without saying goodbye or when he will be back. It seems unfair that he expects me to account for my time when only going to and coming from work each day. He needs to blow off steam, my mind argues. Maybe when he comes back he will be in a better mood, I hope. Still in the kitchen and now only responsible for feeding myself, I make a sandwich and sit down to watch TV. In an effort to save money since we are down to one income, I had purchased a digital converter box for my old TV since we could no longer afford cable. Sometimes I had to adjust the antenna, but it got all the basic local channels.

With my plate on my lap, I watch Jeopardy. When Jon and I first moved in together, we used to watch it every night while we flip flopped making dinner. We never kept score but would shout out answers, though never in the form of a question. We stopped watching months ago. I had answered a tricky question and looked at Jon with a big smile. His response had been, “You think you're so fucking smart, don’t you?” Taking in my wounded expression, Jon continued, “Great. Now you're going to fucking cry” before turning off the TV and storming to our bedroom, door slamming behind him. We never watch Jeopardy together anymore.

Suddenly I feel paranoid for watching it at all, so I turn the TV off and go to clean my plate. Our apartment does not have a dishwasher. I can almost hear Jon's sing-songy voice as he would say, “you cook, I'll clean” when we talked about the lack of dishwasher. These days, I do all the cleaning. There are a pile of dirty dishes in the sink that had not been there that morning. I cannot help but notice that there seem to be more plates than one person might use during the day. I wash them, placing them one, by one onto the plastic drying rack beside the sink.

I go to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth before changing into pajamas and going to bed. It feels strange, having the bed to myself. I plop down into it without a care and take my time getting comfortable. Sometime in the night, I start when I hear the front door close. I lie there, eyes shut, doing my best to appear asleep. Jon switches on the bedroom light when he walks in. Still, I pretend to sleep. I hear him walk over to my side of the bed and can sense him over me. He stands there for a few moments. I do not move an inch. With my entire being I wish him away. I almost open my eyes when I feel the feather light touch of his finger brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

Was that affection? I am too startled to respond. As quickly as his fingertip brushes my cheek, it is gone. Jon turns off the light before undressing and climbing into bed. I lie there stunned, hopeful. Jon still cares. He has to. I drift back to sleep with a feeling I have not had in months: hope.

The next morning I wake early. I would have loved to sleep in, but I had gone to bed fairly early and have an internal alarm clock. Jon is still asleep so I ease out of bed to not disturb him. His touch the night before was still affecting me. I feel almost light and cheerful. Wanting to surprise Jon, I quietly set to baking