Complicated Love

It was true, I was thinking about my ex while in the shower with my partner. His hands were gently foaming up the milk and honey body wash over my shoulders and down my breasts, his lips kissing my neck, my cheeks, my lips as he did so. He was here, gently conveying his love through his physical touch, and I was thinking about my ex. It was true that I wasn't thinking of kissing my ex and I wasn't one hundred percent sure what had provoked these thoughts but the fact that I was even thinking them was problematic. We were readying ourselves for a party with his friend group after working together from 4:30 that morning so I really needed to change my headspace, but I just couldn't seem to.

Our day had started to a 3:30 alarm which went off again at 3:45 and again at 4 before finally we unstuck our eyelids and dragged ourselves out of bed, dragged on shit-stained clothes that hadn't fully dried overnight and were still wet on the waistband and inside the pockets. No breakfast, pitch black, freezing cold and zooming to the dairy on the back of the motorbike. The day was crazy from the second we started setting up, with 1200 cows to bring in and milk, cows to calve and calves to tag and record, fences to fix. First coffee had been at around 8, lunch had been on-the-go at around 1 before diving into the afternoon milking with the same 1200 cows. I realised that we had started dating when he was on a Christmas break and our first months were filled with adventures and lazy days, drives with no particular destination in mind, drinks down by the river in the summer sun and kisses in the waist deep river water. I was realising now that my idea of my future would have to shift if I committed to forever with this man and his 24/7, backbreaking profession that would leave me sitting at home after our wedding devoid of a honeymoon and after that sitting at home alone trying to entertain kids whose most frequently asked question was 'where's daddy?'.

...

My ex had worked hard but he'd still made time to take holidays and breaks. His job allowed that flexibility in a way the farm doesn't. When we travelled it was weekend getaways for birthdays and anniversaries or even just because we could. I had loved trips to the casino with hundred-dollar bills, dinners out every Friday night, cocktails, nice wine in long stemmed glasses, cheese platters and sunsets on two story decks with a game of poker on the table. His house was always clean, dishes done, washing folded and my house now was never devoid of the feeling of sand on tiles no matter how often I swept and mopped.

...

It was this that I missed as I stepped out of the shower, knowing that the one night my partner and I had together was being spent seeing his mates and getting drunk. The sense that we could have quality time together, spending romantic time traversing streets and popping in at cafes and markets and malls to remove ourselves from the daily grind was missing. I didn't, couldn't, do this with my partner - wasn't granted the freedom. His two days off (if he even managed to get them) were filled with doing the necessary things; washing dishes, folding laundry, vacuuming, visiting and helping family and tonight! The perfect example! Tomorrow he would be hungover, both of us tired, and we would waste a day. Sometimes I had to work on his days off, where I would either be away on shift for the first half of the day or the second half of the day. If it wasn't work I would have study to do or assignments to work on. Where was the fun, the freedom, the ability to be spontaneous? Where was the time to have lived experiences together?

As I sat in bed, still in my towel after the shower, and opened my social media to procrastinate leaving my home my feed was filled with posts from dream destinations, 'add this to your bucket list' experiences, magical sunsets, views from plane windows, people assuring me I 'can make my money back but can't re-live my twenties'. This and wedding videos, peoples' photoshoots from their engagement, reels from their honeymoon. Big Brother strikes again as my phone rubbed salt in my wounds. Everything I was worrying about and pining for was there at the touch of a fingertip, but it was as if I was wearing gloves and my fingers just couldn't gain traction on the screen, couldn't turn that post into my life. With a heavy sign I stepped into my underwear, fastened my bra and pulled my dress up. I turned for my partner to ease up the zip and fasten the clasp and watching our reflection in the mirror all I could see was us doing this in 15 years' time, in our late thirties, on our once-every-six-months date night away from the kids. I could see us, resentful and bitter with the regret of missing out on our youth and I felt like his job, his inability to get away or stand up to management and ask for time off would break us apart. I felt as if I was in a box, with my arms wrapped around my body and my back cramping and my bent legs burning and that maybe, if I could just lift the lid of that box, stand to the full stretch of my legs, open my arms to their span and inhale all the different smells and open my eyes to all the different sunsets of all the different places, the sparkly blue of water and lush green of forests and crisp white of snow and deep mahogany of wood cottages with the bronze fittings on the outdoor bath well gosh, wouldn't I just be happy then. I extended my lashes with mascara, volumized my hair, slipped on socks and zipped up my heeled boots and exited the house for the car, barely pausing to grab and open a drink for the road.