November 1st by Lady Axelle

November 1st by Axelle Paramour

The hours show four and five, time to begin. I make one more quick call and reply to the last email of the day. I check the text she had sent that morning and try to recall if we were out of mushrooms or not. No, there’s still a few, she hadn’t wanted them in the salad a few nights ago. I stand and put on my warm coat, wrapping my neck with a scarf before grabbing my case, feeling the cool of her necklace press against me. It’s a few minutes past the half hour and I quicken my pace, not wanting to miss the trolley and return home late.

I sit next to a small girl as she chats with her mother or nanny and notice how when the little girl  laughs she has the same smile as her, and how I had always thought that, that her smile was that of a child. Ear to ear with an abandon that made me whole. I come upon my stop and hop off, listening to the cling of the bell. It’s the first of November, I stop at the corner stand and buy the magazines she likes. I chuckle at the contents remembering how when I had once asked her why she read such frivolousness she had told me to hush, that no one could read Joyce all the time.

I walk up the hill, reaching out to touch the street lamp, holding on to the memory of when she had pushed my against it one far ago morning and had kissed me while she gripped my hair, whispering “Mine”. I enter the soundless house through the kitchen, hanging my coat and scarf on the hook. I drop my case in my office and head upstairs to place her magazine on her nightstand. I set the small bar of candy on top, because as much as she has told me she has sworn off sweets, I know it was an empty proclamation. When she turned forty she started this health kick, meaning she looks in the mirror more often examining herself and I had to learn to cook without butter and salt. I watch her sometimes trying to discern what she sees, if the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes remind her of the afternoons we laughed till we ached like they do for me.

The clock strikes twelve five times and I have half an hour, I change and turn on some music before heading to the kitchen. Though it’s only cooked once a year, the recipe isn’t lost to me. I brown the vegetables and meat, deglaze the pan with red wine, and add the tomato sauce. I omit the red pepper flakes “too spicey” and the cream “too fatty”. As it simmers I call out to Temple and hear her familiar gate trot close. She devours her kibble and I decide it’s best to make a salad to accompany the pasta and bread. She isn’t a puppy anymore, but she sure eats like one. I hear the clock strike once as I rip the last of the romaine, I quickly stir the sauce and head to the front hall.    

Clicking the stereo off I find the cushion near the door and ease myself down on both knees. There hadn’t always been a cushion, but when I returned from the doctor last winter after fracturing my fibula it was there. I grip my left wrist with my right hand and my eyes wander over the wooden floor, she was right,  the mahogany stain looks better than the ash would have. The telling sound of her key in the door makes my chest rise and my spine stiffen. She enters quietly, wiping her heels on the mat and dropping her keys on the small table. The hall door opens, closes, and she passes me heading up the stairs. I feel the familiar pain in my knees creep in but I don’t waiver. After a few minutes I hear her descend the stairs and her small black flats are standing in front of me. Her fingers gingerly glide through the tufts of my hair before cupping the back and settling under my chin. She lifts my face as she leans down and brushes her lips against mine, making my body ache and ease within the same gesture. “Get me something warm dear. “ she says, whistling for Temple and they amble out the front door.

She makes a face as she sips her tea, pushing the spaghetti bolognese around her plate and I tell her about my day. We talk of the ordinary, laughing at the humorous and sighing at the misfortune. When she finishes she thanks me for the meal and joins Temple by the fire in the living room. I clear the dishes and clean the kitchen, when I enter the living room with my book she’s aimlessly flipping through television channels. I take the seat opposite her on the couch, she slips her feet in my lap and I cover them with a pillow as I open my book and she settles on an old Kubrick movie. She keeps a straight face as she pokes me in the belly, distracting me from my story. Try as I might, I give in and laugh. When her yawning become more frequent I excuse myself and head upstairs, climbing in the sheets and shiver as I lay there like a star fish.

It’s not too long before she enters the bedroom and dresses for bed. I climb out and tuck the sheets back in before taking my place behind her and undoing the loose bun on top of her head. She gives her head a shake and her waves unfurl as she covers her mouth, stifling a yawn. I tilt my head toward the door and question, “Ma’am?”, she nods and waves me off as she slips in the sheets. Heading down the stairs she calls my name sternly as I hear the tell tale crinkle and I chuckle to myself. Temple snoozes at my feet as I check my emails and try to make headway on the latest project. Our daughter catches me online and she scolds me for trying to lay low today. We catch up a bit and I bid her a farewell when I notice the time. I nudge Temple and we both head to bed.

The light is off and I silently change. I slip in and she stirs, waking a bit, “About time dear.” She reaches behind the pillows and pulls the chains out, reaching for my wrists she clasps the bounds ‘round them and locks them with the key she wears around her neck before handing it to me so I can place it on my nightstand. The very first night she did this I asked why she just didn’t keep the key herself and she had said, “These chains don’t bind you to me anymore than that necklace around your neck does, the only thing that ties you to I is your desire and your will.” She nestles against me and I cradle her head and her back, pulling her close.

Between my rib cage I feel the weight of the smooth stone, smiling in the dark she whispers, “Happy Birthday My Love”, and places a kiss on top of my heart. Number twenty-nine. We had met when I was nineteen, on a family vacation to Sardinia. I had tagged along with my parents after a treacherous breakup. For my birthday they had taken me out for my favorite meal at  a family run restaurant whose spaghetti bolognese was rumored to be the best in all of Italy. I was miserable and homesick, but when she approached our table to take our order there was something in her face that made me hurt less. I stayed at that table long after the meal and birthday cake, long after my parents left, long after she had made that joke about hating the famous dish. I offered to walk her home and after I had learned she was spending a semester abroad, she stopped me in the middle of the street, picked up a piece of cobblestone and tossed it to me, “Happy Birthday”. She stirs in my arms and I’m pulled from my reverie.

“Dear?”

“Yes Mistress?”

“What did you wish for all those nights ago?”

“I wished for home.”

She nods against my chest and I close my eyes as the clock strikes twelve times and we’re lulled to sleep.