We Met In May

Apartment

My clothes reeked of metal, by the time I got off work.

I showered, changed my clothes, but the scent clung to me like a second skin. I felt anxious like this. Despite our years of marriage, I didn't want to seem unpolished; uncaring.
I observed myself in the mirror.

My clothes were crisp, ironed; and I looked alright. I started to brush my teeth, again.

They have a slight tinge to them, but are in good shape for my age. I try to take care of myself— I'm not young anymore. Peter is thirty-seven, two years my senior. I look much older than him regardless, having worked in the factories most of my life. It's made my appearance rough. My hair is coarse, skin hardened from years of strenuous labour. Despite this, I have a nice face. I remind myself that Peter is very fond of my build, additionally, and it makes me feel a little more confident.

Taking one final look at myself, I finish up with brushing, and go to put on shoes.

•••••••••••••••••••••

A syringe cracks under the weight of my boots. I squeeze my way between two abandoned row houses, pushing lengths of thick ivy aside.
The windows of the houses have been brushed over with paint. Though it is chipping, its colour remains green; opaque. I emerge from the small alley.

I am immediately immersed in the chatter of several school children. They sit on the porch a little ways from myself; entertaining themselves with wide blades of grass. I don't stick around.

The library is roughly a kilometre from my apartment, sandwiched between an upscale auto-shop, and a diner. It takes me a little over twenty minutes to arrive, as two streets have been blocked off.

The door to the library is solid oak, and very hard to open. It scrapes off the ground as I drive my weight against it; giving purchase in tiny gaps of movement.

I squint against the heat that creeps through.

It's always hot in the library. Air conditioning is too expensive, but there is a fan. It breathes air into the library with a gentle hum.
I settle down in one of the armchairs.

I wait for what feels like a long time; and I don't realize I've started to drift off until Peter calls for me.

"Marcus."

I look at him. He is a handsome man, with soft brown eyes. Right now, he seems a little tired.
I sit up in my chair properly. He is holding a stack of magazines. I start to smile, realizing why he has them.

"Let me see," I say. The man sets one of them in my lap. It has a glossy cover, and a perfect spine. Before I met Peter, I didn't know what this meant. That, a magazine this polished was doing well for itself. Moreover, getting to write for such a magazine meant that you were making a name for yourself in journalism. I couldn't help but smile for my husband.

Peter was over the moon, watching me carefully as I read his article. It was evocative, given the tone he was expected to write in, and had managed to make me interested in what would have otherwise been another boring golf magazine.
He let me read the next article. This magazine wasn't as impressive, as it was from a smaller printing company, the upside being that it gave him more creative freedom. It is more pleasant to read than the golf magazine, and very well written.

I smile at my lover, before kissing his cheek. I tell him that he did a great job. He tells me that he wants to get dinner. It's been a while since we've had time to go out to a restaurant together. I don't pass up the opportunity.

Peter and I go home together later that night, after getting drinks. He is a little tipsy, like me, but I manage to get him to the apartment safely. Peter now sits with me on the ottoman. He is kissing me, groping between my legs.