Corbyn Besson
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She stared. Sighed deeply. Dropped the phone— complete with a front screen of shattered glass— on the coffee table.
Calves protesting, she squatted and then sat on the rug laid out on her living room floor. Sweat beading on her forehead threatened to slip down the length of her face but she tried to ignore it and threw her leg out to begin stretching.
In the midst of her daily run, she had stumbled on an uneven bit of sidewalk and her phone, naturally, flew out of her hand. And, naturally, landed face-first on cement, hence why it sat uselessly and out of order a few feet away, awaiting a visit to the store.
While leaning to grab her foot, she turned on the television, the news appearing before her. The reporter's mouth moved rapidly, eyebrows furrowed together. The usual. She raised the volume.
"A car accident occurred this morning around seven a.m., involving a truck and a smaller vehicle."
The voice filtering through the speakers was serious, objective. The young woman glanced away from the newly-caked dirt on her shoes in time to catch an aerial view of the car accident.
A moment. Two.
She squinted.
The camera zoomed in on the scene and panic flushed through her system.
That's Corbyn's car.
She rose all too quickly, not quickly enough. Mind stuffed with cotton, blood rushing in her ears, she couldn't think straight enough to stay put and wait to hear the rest of the news report.
All she knew was that her husband was in the car accident and she couldn't contact him. At all.
;
It smelled like home: herbal essence and brewed coffee and scrambled eggs.
Sunlight cast warm pools of light over the kitchen table, where a young man sat silently, watching his wife walk toward him carrying food she insisted on preparing alone.
Porcelain clinked softly against wood as she set the plate before him, slid into her own chair across the way. They ate in a comfortable silence because it was a still and slow Sunday morning.
At one point, however, she could not bring herself to eat anymore. She glanced up at her husband, watching him and all of his magnificence with an expression that could only be described as utter devotion.
Staring, emotion tugged at her heart, her throat. Because he was just sitting there. Because he was so beautiful.
Because she almost lost him.
The experience a few weeks prior was still fresh on her mind, burned into her thoughts. She could still feel the shake of her hands as she rushed to her car, could still feel how tightly she gripped the steering wheel as she sped over asphalt roads. She could still recall how her heart was pounding as she pulled up to the scene. She could still feel the slight breeze on her flushed face as she rushed forward, eyes hungry, searching for him, only him.
And she could still remember the flash of numbing relief when the paramedics let her through. Could still feel the strength of his arms when he pulled her into his chest and whispered over and over and over again that he was okay, that thank God, he was safe and he was right there in front of her.
Eventually, he met her gaze, a streak of light dancing in strands of his unruly hair.
At a loss for words, fumbling to pin what she was experiencing, how much relief was washing over her, she whispered, "I love you."
He smiled, just a little because he knew what she meant.
"I love you, sweetheart."
His hand opened on the surface of the table, a gentle invitation for her to take, an even gentler reminder of everything that he was. His skin was warm.
And he was there, right in front of her. So she smiled, too.
—
