Married to My Overseer

A loving stroke on my face and the aroma of home-made waffles, hash browns, bacon, and grits comfort me, but a whiff of vanilla and spiced pepper cologne lulls me awake. Kneeled in front of me between Mommy’s coffee table and the couch, my husband Marcus moves his hand from my cheek. His eyes are wide, brows raised like a sad, little boy.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

Hoping to convince me she isn’t the culprit, Mommy stands in the background and raises her hands. “Your papá told him you were here, and then he slipped out the back after breakfast so he didn’t have to see that look on your face.”

“I helped cook. And I brought drinks,” Marcus says pointing to the assortment of Starbucks on the table. “Coffee or chai?”

“Water.” I push the blanket off me and sit up as he hands me the bottled water. “What time is it?”

Mommy puts on her coat. “It’s ten o’clock, baby. I’ve got errands to run, so if y’all leave before two, use the spare key to lock up. Your plates are in the oven.” She kisses the top of my head and leaves. She must’ve laced my chai with Granmè’s Haitian herbs last night, because I hardly remember what Marcus did that was so bad. Although I still have a grudge, I’m relieved he’s here. Now I’m waiting to hear the right words. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in two days, and I’m exhausted from running, sick of being angry. So come on, say the right thing, Marcus. I want to come back home. I miss you.

“Are you having an affair, Ajha?”

Is he serious? “Marcus, would I be sleeping at my parents’ house if I was having an affair?”

He studies my body language “Yes or no?”

“I tried,” I say.

His chest caves. “What?”

“It wasn’t what I expected.”

“Are you joking?” His eyes shrink trying to read me.

“If I’m trying to have an affair, Marcus, it’s with myself. And I’m not being flip. Something’s broken with us. I’m not happy.”

Eyes fixed on one another, through subtle tweaks of our faces, we communicate in silence. I wait. Finally, he says, “I shouldn’t have kept your phone.”

I nod, and a tear trickles down my face.

“Or let my officers impound your car. I’m sorry.”

My face crumples. More tears.

“I was wrong,” he says, squeezing me in his arms. “Whatever’s broken, baby, I’ll fix it. Please come home.”

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