I am surprised when I round the corner and find him in my - our - bed. My hair is still wet, dripping water droplets down my exposed back, my body scarcely covered by the thin towel. It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts as I glance at the stranger between the sheets, the slight upturn of his lips as he stares down at his book, his hair, wet and stuck up, curling on the ends, his taunt jawbone coated in stubble, his body thankfully hidden by the sheets. It has been months since we have shared a bed, Roger cruelly opting to take the spare room the last time he graced us with his presence; almost a year since anything happened when we did. My arms line with goosebumps at the thought; the high produced by him finding my slightly desirable is as strong as it was in my early twenties, even if the physical act is no longer as noteworthy. Still, after eight months, there is a part of you that craves it, even if it is just to remind yourself that you're still alive.
I have just about managed to drag my eyes away from the spectacle when he notices my arrival in the room, his blue eyes dancing behind his reading glasses. We both blush furiously.
It is only momentarily that our eyes meet, before I dart to the wardrobe, pulling the door open to shield my body from view as I hastily pull on some pjs. To his credit, Roger tries his best to act as though he wasn't watching me as I close the oaken door. As I make my way over to the bed, Roger dutifully takes off his glasses and folds shut his sudoku book, placing both on the bedside cabinet. The objects littering the oft-desolate furniture and Roger's sudden attention throw me off guard.
"There you are. I was beginning to think you'd drowned in the shower or something" Roger jokes weakly as I clamber under the covers. When I had left him, he was just finishing tucking the last of the children into bed, and I was sure after that he wound retreat to his "office" to make phone calls about the band. His sudden attention unnerves me.
"Hair wash day" I excuse, almost mechanically. Roger clicks his tongue, and we once again fall into silence. Having nothing of note to say for him, I clamber for my book. He resigns his concentration back to the sudoku. I doubt either of us are really paying attention to the blurred manuscripts before us - Roger chewing on his pen, his lip trembling somewhat, a mere mask - but it distorts the awkwardness a little.
Once, if you'd have shown me this picture, I would have seen it as the image of marital bliss, the ability of being so comfortable in one's company that even in perfect silence you were content, but our silence is that we simply have nothing to say to one another, and haven't in years.
"Victoria?" Even Roger is smart enough to notice that I have been staring at the same page for over 15 minutes, unable to digest a single word. I nod, reluctantly turning to face him. "Do you want me here?" The question catches me off guard. Partly because I do not know how to answer it and partly because I cannot remember the last time Roger Taylor cared about my emotions, wants or needs.
I am just about to blurt out some pathetic little speech about how the children want him here, to change the subject away from my own feelings, when he interrupts. "In bed, I mean. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable"
The question almost makes me cry. Because I know that for Roger to gage that something is wrong with our relationship, something really must be wrong with it. I want to cry, and rage, and demand why he would even think that, why he would want to sleep in a different room to me, yet again. Because whilst I don't particularly want him here, I know how much it will hurt when he eventually leaves.
Unbidden, my eyes well with tears. I turn my head quickly, but still, he sees them. I can't tell if his sigh is a product of genuine care or annoyance at the wife who is constantly upset with his actions. Either way, his cold hand eventually finds mine atop the comforter.
