Poet's Sunshine

The crying woke her.

Please, no baby, go back to sleep, she begged silently. Hush, hush. It's not time to get up yet.

When it was apparent her mental cajoling was having no effect on the baby, she rose from her warm, fluffy haven with a whimper.

It was too early. Joey should have stayed asleep for at least another two hours. She felt as if she'd only just shut her eyes after his last feeding at three. The night had been rough. The baby fought sleep at every turn and she'd had to cope with the child alone.

Jesse had been home, but he'd needed his rest. His shift at the refinery started at 4:45 AM and he couldn't function if he was exhausted.

But I have to function, exhausted or not. Sick or healthy, there's no getting out of it.

In the nursery, she tended to the baby, all the while cooing phrases like, Mama knows, Mama knows, and You're my precious boy, aren't you? Yes you are. She cooed because it wasn't Joey's fault for living and having needs. It wasn't his fault she was tired and resentful. It was hers. And Jesse's.

Amber, Sunshine, let's do this, he'd cajoled, flashing her his brilliant, irresistible smile. Nothing could be sweeter than having pieces of us, of our love roaming the earth for the next century.

For a man who did dirty, dangerous, physical work every day, and had the body of a brute, Jesse had the soul of a poet.

Take a year off from working. You'll grow our baby, and I'll take care of you. You won't want for anything. I'll take such good care of you.

Paired with his hot breath on her neck, the gravelly words had caused a shiver to run through her. In that moment she'd wanted to make a dozen babies with him. She'd been putty in his hands, always had been.

Won't want for anything, Jesse? she thought now. All I want is to sleep. All I want is a basic human necessity. I don't want diamonds, cars or designer purses. At this point, I'd sell my wedding ring for a nap.

Once she had Joey nursed and changed, they headed downstairs. It was still dark, and Jesse had left the kitchen and dining room lights on, which was unusual.

In the living room she found a basket of clean, folded laundry overturned on the couch, some of them now unfolded and lumped on the floor. Lazy jerk, she thought angrily. The load consisted of sheets and towels. Why he needed to dump them at four in the morning, she didn't know. She figured it was some passive-aggressive bullshit.

He probably resents that I'm not working, probably thinks I do nothing all day, probably wants to make my day just a little harder.

Under her feet, she could feel the grittiness of dried mud from his boots. The trail of dust and chunks led into the dining room and kitchen, illustrating the path he walked before leaving the house. It aggravated her to no end. A dozen times she asked him to put his work boots on last, as he left, not to stomp around, flinging refinery dirt all over the floor. Did he listen? Did he care? No. This was intentional, she was sure.

Sighing, she settled Joey into his playpen, intent on coffee. She knew she needed it in a bad way. Blessedly, she could smell the brew. She always set the pot timer to have it ready for Jesse at 4:05, so he could have a cup on the way to work.

What she found in the kitchen caused her to shriek in outrage. There on the floor was a white towel, now turned brown, soaked--sopping--with a half-carafe worth of coffee. He'd spilled it. He'd spilled it and hadn't bothered to clean it up. Not only that, but there were shards of glass on the floor from the broken pot.