Chapter Text
It was the tea, served in my favourite mug, freshly washed, no longer tainted with the bitter remnants of your coffee. It was the precise measurement of sugar and using almond milk instead of half and half. It was the moment you gave me that mug and when it looked like you were hoping it was good this time, because you wanted me to be happy. The moment I realised I had nothing to complain about.
I’m not sure when it started. I had grown so accustomed to avoiding him, that it became a habit to dive away from him when he came home. Our routines shackled us together. We exchanged questions that had lost their meaning. We paid more attention to the ticking of the clock, waiting for our interactions to end, than the answers leaving our bodies like the carbon from cans of pop. We loved each other, I must assume. The only thing worse than staying was leaving.
You slipped so well into his skin that I almost did not notice.
I remember playing the piano. I was working my way through the classics, drowning out the misery of my life with Mozart and Chopin. Nobody was shouting at me to stop my racket and I was going to take advantage of that. I remember how long it took you to come up to complain like he always did, because you had been waiting behind the door. You had been listening.
I remember having my book club over and being grateful I could see them all out before you came home in a drunken stupor. You still threw our possessions around the room, but only the things that had belonged to him. You shouted and for the first time in years I heard anger that boiled instead of exploded. For the first time in years I withstood the night without adding bruises to my collection.
I remember seeing you walk from the shower to the dresser, walking with confidence. I did not understand how you could look the same as always, yet so much more handsome.
You wore his skin better than he ever did.
We kissed good night and my hand lingered on your skin. You did not turn coldly away from me. You apologised, as was customary after the flames of fury had died down. But somehow it felt like you meant it.
We had our routines and they were the same. Yet they were different.
I made dinner and you cleaned the dishes. Then you made your coffee and fixed me a cup of tea. That was how it always was. I told you off out of habit, pointing out your failings like they would ever change. That had never happened before. Yet here it was.
Maybe it was the way that you looked at me while we exchanged our pleasantries, convincing me you were actually listening. Maybe it was the way that you did not need reminding to have the piano tuner come over, because you were listening to my songs and cared when my tune was disrupted. Maybe it was the way in which you kissed me like I was the most precious thing in the world.
I look at my perfect cup of tea and I could cry.
My husband is dead. Should I mourn him? Should I rejoice?
Whatever strange creature you are, capable of taking his skin, you are capable of being like him. You are a better him. Is it a betrayal to think you love me more than he did? Is it betrayal to admit I love you more than him? Or is it just truth?
We cuddle on the couch together. We smell of tea and coffee, breathing in and out next to each other. The clock is ticking to the sound of our heartbeats and we are at peace. We love each other. And I don’t have to assume.