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Desi’s college roommate, the enthusiastic English major, liked to insist that Joni Mitchell was one of the greatest poets of her generation. “Her lyrics express the unadorned emotional truth of the human experience,” she used to say. Desi didn’t know about that but she did think that Joni Mitchell had written some pretty songs.
Desi had one of those pretty songs stuck in her head, it had been playing in her mind for days, and she kept finding herself singing it out loud at odd moments. The lyrics said that ‘when he’s gone me and the lonesome blues collide, the bed’s too big, the frying pan’s too wide’ and Desi understood that. Mac had been out of the country for three days.
The bed had been too big. It had been nice to have the whole space all to herself but it had been empty and there had been no one to snuggle into or to listen to as he muttered about injection valves in his sleep. As for the frying pan, she hadn’t been anywhere near it, there didn’t seem a lot of point in making a cooked breakfast for one.
The song also said ‘my old man, he’s a singer in the park’, Desi could relate to that too, mostly. Mac was more a singer in the shower, in the driving seat of his truck and in karaoke bars after some fruity cocktails. The more alcohol he had the more daring his song choices became. After two drinks Mac would happily sing cheerful pop songs from his adolescence, after four he’d want to try his hand at edgier rock tunes and that time he drank eight cocktails he thought it would be a good idea for the two of them to duet on the Cher anthem If I Could Turn Back Time. It went better than Desi had expected it to. She smiled at the memory of the two of them sharing a microphone while the crowd cheered them on.
Mac had sent her a text an hour ago:
“I’ve just touched down and I’m waiting to go through security. I’ve missed you x’
He’d been travelling overnight and was bound to be exhausted and hungry so Desi had decided to make breakfast. An omelette, she’d thought, would be good. The frying pan would be just the right size for that. She’d gathered her ingredients from the fridge, shuffling around the kitchen in pyjama bottoms and one of Mac’s T shirts.
The house had felt empty while Mac had been away, he took up a lot of space. It wasn’t that he was untidy, it wasn’t even that where Mac was there was bound to be a trail of half built ideas and junk that looked useful . It was that Mac noticed things, couldn’t resist picking them up, exploring them, planning to make them better or considering what he could make with their component parts and when he did that Desi noticed things too. A room without him in it seemed smaller somehow, the items in it diminished and less real.
There had been a time when Desi had wondered if Mac was with her because he saw something he wanted to make from all her various parts. She’d thought that maybe when he looked at her he saw resilience, useful skills, a similar sense of humour and the ability to eat four custard donuts in a row and thought that the partner he wanted could be created from the mess of characteristics that made up who she was. She’d worried that when he realised her component parts were immovable and she couldn’t be changed he would leave, seeking something better. But he hadn’t left, and neither had she, and she was starting to believe that he liked her, not the jumble of elements that she was made of, but her, the whole of who she was just as she was.
She liked him too. Really liked him. All the funny little bits that made up the moving parts of Mac had come together to create someone Desi cared for deeply, even if one or two of those parts were dorky and knew all the words to cheesy 80’s hits.
Desi’s phone buzzed again:
‘Almost home’
The omelette was nearly ready and Desi was just poking around in the fridge to find a carton of orange juice when the front door of the house opened and Mac’s tired voice called to her.
“Des?”
“Hey!” Desi drew back out of the fridge and jogged out of the kitchen to meet Mac. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue but they brightened when he saw her. He opened his arms and Desi stepped into them.
It was only supposed to be a little kiss, one to say hello but neither Mac nor Desi pulled away. The kiss grew until it was much more than a quick peck and Desi rose up onto her toes to push herself against Mac. A warmth Desi had searched for with Mac’s hoodie and a hand thrown out to his side of the bed filled her. When the kiss ended they rested their foreheads together, delighting in the other’s closeness. They would have stayed there longer but the smell of burning egg started drifting towards them.
“The omelette!” Desi ran back into the kitchen. “I made you breakfast,” she said, poking at the frying pan, the eggs were fine, just a tiny bit blackened.
“I got you breakfast too.” Mac held up a paper bag. “Custard donuts, your favourite.”
“That’s great,” Desi said, “there’s no reason why we can’t have both.” She divided the omelette between two plates while Mac poured glasses of orange juice. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”
“God, yes,“ Mac groaned. “The peanuts on the flight were stale. And the coffee – do you remember the coffees we had in that amazing place in Brazil?”
“I do.”
“Well, the coffee on the flight was nothing like that.”
Desi laughed, “Poor baby.”
“What have you been doing?” Mac asked, stabbing at his breakfast with a fork.
“Oh you know, “Desi shrugged, “the usual. It’s weird when you’re not here,” she said, “it’s all quiet and still.”
“Oh.” Mac frowned, “and is that a bad thing?”
“It is. You know me” Desi grinned, “I like a bit of noise.” She reached out and cupped Mac’s cheek, stubble prickling her palm as she caressed his cheekbone with her thumb. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Mac rested a hand over hers. “Me too.”