My Dear Laurens (Lams)

A. Hamilton

White. White is the color of the door to Alexander and Eliza's house. Not only their house but their home. The door was wooden, painted with layers of white. The doorknob, however, was gold. Most of the expensive parts of their home were a gift from Philip Schuyler, Eliza's father. He knew Alexander would not have the funds to provide himself or Eliza with a particularly nice home, so he filled in the holes where he could. Alexander was thankful. Although he usually would not have liked the gift, Eliza helped him see the light in the "pathetic charity that we're reduced to," as Alexander would say.  

As his memory of the door's history crossed his mind, he realized he was stalling. He had to see her, and he had to tell her what had happened between him and Laurens. He had to confess. While these daunting thoughts hung over him, he could at least take the first step.  

He knocked. Three times.  

He heard the soft patter of footsteps, most likely bare, arrive at the door, then pause. The doorknob twisted, and the door slid open. Behind the door, with bare feet, stood his wife, Eliza. Usually, her hair was tied half-up, half-down, but now her hair was loose. She wasn't speaking; she just stared. Her eyes were bright and glimmering in the mid-day sunlight. Alexander forgot his purpose in those eyes. Or, more likely, he forced his purpose away, hoping it would disappear. He didn't want to be the person to hurt her and rip that beautiful smile off her face. So, he tried not to think about it. 

"Alexander," Eliza whispered.  

Alexander smiled and dropped his bag on the steps. He opened his arms wide. "Eliza. My love, how are you?" 

Eliza did not describe her mood. Instead, she jumped into Alexander's embrace, kicking her feet up in the process. He grabbed his bag, threw it inside, and carried her through the door as well. He closed the door and set her down. Immediately, she grabbed his face in hers and brought him down for a kiss. He hesitated in the kiss, his eyes wide open, as his purpose rammed into his consciousness. He didn't pull away; he kissed back. He held her head in his hand, and he let her express all of her pent-up emotions. He expressed nothing but misplaced courtesy. Eventually, she pulled away with a toothy grin and a hint of a blush on her cheeks.  

She held his face in her hands as she said, "I've wanted to do that for so long." 

His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before he met her eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted for a second, but he felt the lies leaking into every part of his psyche. He hated to be false with her. But he couldn't seem to form the right words to transition from dishonesty to honesty.  

"What's wrong?" Eliza asked, leading Alexander to a bench on the porch outside of their home and sitting him down. 

Alexander laughed and scratched the back of his neck. He held Eliza's hand in his and leaned down to kiss it. "Nothing for you to worry about, my dear. I've just been thinking about what happened between Washington and me. I wanted to fight until the war was won, but I got thrown out and I don't think I'll be allowed to see the end of it." 

Eliza walked behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. "There's nothing for you to worry about either. I won't try to act like I know what you're going through, but there is more to life than war. There's so much for you here if you just look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now." 

Alexander felt the weight of so much more than just Eliza's hands on his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the ground. "How can you be happy with me? I have nothing to provide you with any more. We'll be poor, and we'll have nothing."

Eliza slid her hands down to his chest and leaned into his back. "I relish being your wife, Alexander. Look at where you started. The fact that you're alive is a miracle. Just stay alive, and that would be enough."