When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Fix You, Coldplay
Ten years ago:
Logan tugged the crumpled grocery list from his pocket and smoothed it against the red handlebar of the shopping cart, studying it absently as he wheeled his way through the produce section. The girlish swirls of Jean’s handwriting were marred by the creases in the paper, which sported one of those quaint little homey pictures of girls in sunbonnets with cherries in a basket. Jean held sway in the kitchen; she worshipped at the shrines of Mary Engelbreit and Martha Stewart, so everything was quaintly covered in fruit, pastel plaid or dried flowers. Logan’s refuge in the spare room was thankfully untouched. The full-sized guest bed was dressed in the plainer extra linens Jean bought on clearance at the Bed and Bath store, and there wasn’t so much as a frill of Battenburg lace or cherry to be found, thank God.
The list was thankfully short. The cart had one jerky wheel that made it list to the left, and it wobbled and squeaked while he was pushing his way past the avocadoes, out of season and overpriced. The balls of his feet throbbed, and he craved a shower just to peel off his street clothes. The thick, black leather jacket was halfway zipped, and he was already sweating while his body adjusted its core temperature from being out in the icy wind to coming inside to 70 degrees Fahrenheit-heated air.
Six Fuji apples found their way into a plastic bag that he knotted shut, even though they weren’t on The List. Two for one special on bread. Two for one special on eggs. Buy two for a discount on milk. Bagels. Yogurt, 12 for $7.00. Butter, unsalted. Sugar. Spaghetti sauce. The “Big Trip” to the supermarket downtown could wait til Friday, she’d reminded him. Payday.
His eyes were watery from the weather, and they ached from his long shift. It was the kind of burning, throbbing ache he knew would follow him into an uneasy sleep. Black typeface still swam in his vision like fish. Logan hated writing reports with a passion.
He snagged an issue of Sports Illustrated on his way to the toiletry aisle; his Old Spice sports stick was already down to the last smear. It was hard enough smelling good at all with Jeannie swiping his cologne that she bought him for Father’s Day, but he couldn’t complain, especially when it smelled pretty good on her, and she’d buttered him up by telling him “It’s not as good as having you with me, but I can enjoy smelling you anyway.” Stinker.
He used the automatic checkout and bagged his meager purchases in plastic, since he agreed with Jean that buying kitchen-sized garbage bags was a big, fat waste when the grocery bags were free. A gaggle of kids out past their curfew ceased their raucous scuffle inside and hurried past him, hunched in conspiracy to avoid the inevitable ID check when they went to the register. He cocked an eyebrow and flattened his lips when a girl wearing more makeup than he’d ever allow Gayle to wear peeked back to see if he was still looking. Logan’s eyes followed them through the snack aisle on his way out, and then caught the eye of a handsome woman of middle years manning the register, also peering after the kids and sighing gustily at the inevitable ID check. He winked. She grinned. Now, he could go home.
She’d left him a light on out front, and pulled her CRV into the garage, making him settle for the driveway. He grabbed the bags from the backseat and kicked the door of his black sedan shut, carrying his keys between his teeth. He wasn’t expecting her to be up.
She’d surprised him. He found her still awake, her familiar crown of titian hair muted to a rusty chestnut by the dim kitchen lights. She squinted and scowled over her day planner, scribbling in the margins. Tired green eyes met his before she spied the groceries.
“Oh, honey, did you remember the olives?”
He grunted. “What am I, chopped liver? I come home ta my lovin’ wife, an’ all I get is ‘where’s the olives?’ No ‘Hi, honey, how was yer day, d’ya want me ta peel ya a grape an’ rub my feet?” He thrust the bags onto the counter and began to unzip his jacket, but her faint smile turned into a mulish line.
“Hang that up before you go upstairs,” she carped.
“I’ll get to it, sheesh!”
“Sure. ‘I’ll get to it’ means I’ll still find it tossed on the chair in the morning. The last time that happened, Gayle went through your pockets and found your cigarettes and scattered the tobacco all over the kitchen floor. I had to call Poison Control because I was afraid she’d swallowed some!” She began to root through the bags, emptying their contents onto the Corian surface. “No olives.”
“Nope. Not on the list.”
“Errrrrrg…I needed them for the potluck tomorrow. PTA. Mother-Daughter Night. I promised a seven-layer dip.”
“So make it six.”
“It’s not the same,” she insisted, but her voice lost some of its petulance when he embraced her from behind, tugging her against his broad, solid chest. His breath steamed the side of her neck as he murmured against her skin, and she felt a delicious shiver at the contact. She still smelled like his cologne and her own shampoo and facial cleanser. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her curves begged for attention, to be held, stroked and enjoyed. His hands snuck beneath the flap of her pink terry cloth robe and teased her until she squirmed.
“Ya’ll make do. Ya always do.”
“It’s hard enough just trying to pull it all together. I’m driving the carpool tomorrow, and Gayle has a Brownie Scout meeting at three-thirty, so I have to get off work early and make up the difference on Friday. I’m swamped.”
“So why ya stayin’ up?”
“I’ve got the day planner from hell. The more things I cross off that I get done, the more crap that jumps up and takes its place.”
“Yer overdoin’ it.”
“Just hook me up to a caffeine IV, and I’ll manage, thank you.” Blunt, gentle fingers scraped back the sheaves of soft, shining hair from her throat, and he replaced it with his lips, nibbling her flesh until she began to respond; her low moan distracted him from how exhausted he was as he felt himself stirring to life against the curve of her rump.
“Ain’t gonna be needin’ that now,” he murmured huskily, his breath warm as it steamed her ear, making her shiver with want. “Come t’bed, baby.”
“I’ve got to put everything away!”
Logan never broke his embrace, waltzing them over to the bag of food on the counter, grasping it with his free hand and waltzing them toward the fridge. “LOGAN!”
“Hush up, woman, ya wanna wake Gayle?” he nagged petulantly as he slung the bag onto the almost empty top shelf and kicked the door shut. “There. All put away. Now come t’bed.” She sighed wearily, but he knew she was smiling as they wandered up the steps.
She didn’t turn on the lights. Logan let her go long enough to shower and brush his teeth. He was still dripping, a towel slung around his waist as he crossed the bedroom to meet Jeannie by the edge of the bed. He felt her before he saw her; the moonlight landed in slivers across the hard wood, barely creating enough light to pick out her silhouette as she freed him from his towel and used it to begin buffing him dry. His mouth sought hers and found them as she briskly rubbed his damp hair. She still smelled like his aftershave. His supple skin felt warm beneath her hands, which kneaded and stroked him, releasing the tensions of the day. It was their ritual. He moved to turn on the lamp, wanting to see her, but she pulled him back for another kiss, distracting him with her touch, and he gave into the urge to strip off her robe. He let his hands map out her body better than his eyes ever could, and she cried out her approval to the night.
Now:
“Is that your daughter?”
“Yup.”
“She’s darling! How old is she?”
“I think so too, but I’m biased. She’s ten. Takes after her daddy.” Her expression hardly faltered with the admission before she got up from the desk behind the nurses’ station and stretched, rotating her upper body right, then left to work out a kink in her lower back.
“Got a fractured wrist in room five.”
“That’s my next stop.” The hall wasn’t that crowded yet, but all of the exam rooms were occupied in the ER ward for the moment. Any moment now, she thought, before we’re swamped.
The boy sitting on the bed was young enough to still swing his legs with boredom as he cradled his arm. His mother looked harried and tired, reading a dog-eared issue of People beside him. She raised her head from it as she greeted their visitor.
“He had an accident; my son was playing by the creek,” she explained breathlessly before Ororo could even ask their names or introduce herself.
“I’m going to take him over to Radiology in a minute, they’re just getting the suite ready. What’s your name?” she asked him, offering him a smile that she hoped would win him over so she could take him down the hall.
“Stephen,” he replied, and he stared at her shirt with interest. “You’re wearing Spongebob,” he informed her. Her smile widened.
“He’s my favorite,” she admitted. Her scrubs were blue, but her top was printed in the characters that were also her daughter’s favorites, complete with bubbles and pink jellyfish. She reached for his wrist, allowing him to lay it in her palm. The limb was swollen and tender to the touch, judging by his wince and muted gasp. “I bet you’re being really brave and good for your mom, Stephen.”
“Hurts,” he complained, and his mother ruffled his hair fondly.
“I told him to be careful down by the water. He and his brother were running and he slipped on some wet rocks,” his mother added, her expression anxious but not unfamiliar.
“I can relate,” Ororo assured her. “How old are you, Stephen?”
“Ten.” He sat up more proudly.
“Ahhhhh. You’re one old man, my friend.” And he was her daughter’s age, she considered. She made more small talk with him on the way to Radiology and made sure his mother was garbed in a lead apron while she stood by nervously to the side. She silently gave thanks that her own child wasn’t lying on that table.
