The Note

The Note

At a little after four in the morning I carefully turned the doorknob and stepped into the house. A light was on in the kitchen. Closing the door behind me, I followed the light and found my wife asleep with her head on the table. There was an empty bottle of Smirnoff and a spiral notebook on the table. Eyelids flickering, she held in her right hand a pen. Leaning over her, I read the one word she’d written in red ink on the open page of the notebook -- Sorry.

I did not know whether or not to shake her awake, announcing my presence and offering to help her upstairs to bed. I spent a confused moment wondering whether or not to heft her from where she sat sleeping and carry her up the steps myself. But in my state my coordination was questionable and I dreaded the thought of dropping her. I stared a long time at the word she’d scribbled in the notebook. Sorry.

Bending forward, I kissed her on the forehead, then slowly retreated out of the kitchen and toward the front door, where I carefully turned the knob and stepped outside. Charcoal gray already tainted the darkness in the distant horizon. The sun would not be far behind. Not sure what to do next, I reached into my front trouser pocket and removed my keys. I stared at my car on the curb, then walked across the lawn and hopped into the car, turned the key and clicked on the radio. I sat a while behind the wheel.

Four or five songs later, I climbed back out of the car and headed to the house.

This time, I thought, I would create a great deal of noise when entering the house. I‘d slam the door she behind me and shout out her name several times before going to the kitchen. If this didn’t rouse her, I would shake her awake, pretending not to see the note she’d written. And I’d let her choose whether or not to climb the stairs and accompany me to bed.