The Brandywine Prophet

9.5 Lilapricot'93

“Hydey? That you?”

“Give me a sec.” Hyde dropped his suitcase by the front door and dashed into the study with laptop in hand. “ERROR: 0086428408456” was already waiting when he opened the screen. He hit “cancel” and opened Baylee’s chat.

She was online.

HWelectronics: bay? are you there?

No reply.

HWelectronics: please respond... i can’t do this, sweetie. i’ll go crazy.

“Hey there! Good trip?” Kayla stood between the French doors. She couldn’t see the monitor so he kept typing.

“Good. Yeah. Give me another minute. Finishing up a few loose ends.”

“I made a welcome-home dinner. Scallops and--”

“Sounds good, baby. I’ll be right out.”

“Take your time. The scallops won’t go anywhere!”

HWelectronics: damnit, bay don’t do this!!!! at least tell me you’ll wait for me! tell me you won’t be with other guys or it’ll drive me crazy.

No reply.

HWelectronics: i need to go, sweet girl. text me tonight... please. i love you.

Dinner began as a polite charade with a “Do you love me?” (If I loved you I would say it!) and a “Yes, dear I love you.” Kayla showed her affection with food, but Hyde didn’t care about food. Scallops were just scallops. He needed quality time, not puzzles and phone-dates with the in-laws. He longed for praise and encouragement for his work, not haircuts. And he needed to be touched without being asked! “Is this okay?” or “Do you want to do it?” or “Are you sure?” He needed love without expectation; without wondering if a prank might drive her mad. All the superficial reasons for Bayyyyylee were thrown away; her eyes, breasts, that magic number of nineteen became irrelevant as he longed for that moment where everything in her busy, extroverted life faded and he--Hyde--consumed her attention; that soft red corner near her pulse where friends, classes and intense life experiences fell to the wayside for him.

Scallops. Yum. Now she talked about repainting the bedroom some new shade of beige and he yearned for a real conversation. Every time he spoke his wife’s name it was a conscious effort to begin with “Kay” instead of “Bay”. Would that ever get easier?

She tried to be sweet. She told him he could help decide the color. But his mind was gone. He considered dropping hints; leaving out a suggestive email, a text or a note for her to stumble upon; a starting point, a leaping tidbit that would commence the excruciating beginning to a blissful end.

He locked the bathroom door. Steam rose from the shower curtain and stuck to the mirror. He stripped off his clothes and gladly accepted the scolding water. His finger traced the bite mark above his left nipple. If Baylee was merely sex, the bruise would be a mark of shame or guilt. If they were just fingernail scratches down his back, burning in the hot water, he wouldn’t be considering what he was considering.

Those eyes... and that crescent beneath her cheek that framed her smile; a single pimple on her chin (”I wish I could be a woman for you.”) now a detail that made the pain even harder to accept. All the effort to “not take things for granted” only made it harder. Snap.

Hyde considered himself a tolerant person. I accept gay people because they can’t help it. I accept fat people. It’s not their fault they like food! So how is it my fault that I don’t love my wife anymore? If they shouldn’t feel guilty, then I shouldn’t feel guilty! It’s who I am.