Between the Kitchen Light and Neon

Between the kitchen light and neon

she sits at the kitchen table
5 a.m.
the fridge humming like some old drunk
trying to remember the words

husband’s asleep down the hall
one arm thrown over the empty side of the bed
like he’s still holding her
even in dreams

good man
solid man
pays the bills on time
stacks the dishes in neat little rows
kisses her forehead before work
like a priest giving his last blessing

and every night at eight
he leans over Kim’s workbook
explaining fractions with that slow, patient voice
pencil smudges on his fingers
while their girl squints and chews her lip
until the numbers finally line up

he loves her in that steady way
like bus schedules
and winter coats
never flashy
but there when it’s raining
and the car won’t start

and then there’s the other one

the bad paper
the overdraft
the cigarette burning too close to the curtain

he calls at stupid hours
like this
half drunk, voice cracking through the phone
“you awake?”
and every time he asks
she already is

he’s got a laugh that sounds like breaking bottles
and eyes that never promise tomorrow
only tonight
and maybe not even that

they meet in places
her husband would never step into
bars that smell like mop water and despair
neon lights buzzing out their dying prayers
a jukebox that knows only sad songs
and turns them into background noise

with him
she feels the floor drop out
that hot, mean rush
like leaning too far over a balcony
wanting to see how close you can get
without falling

he’s no good
she knows it
the way you know milk’s gone sour
before you even open the carton

but when his hands are on her
all those neat little rows--
bills, dishes, promises, years--
spill to the floor

afterwards
she sits on the edge of his mattress
springs digging into her thighs
smoke crawling up her throat
clothes half on, half off
conscience doing the same

he falls asleep fast
like a man with no one to answer to
mouth open
snoring through the wreckage of himself

she watches him
this beautiful disaster
this human car crash
and thinks
this is the truth of me too

but truth is a cheap drunk
and daylight is a cop
that always shows up eventually

morning comes with its usual threats
traffic
noise
sunlight through blinds like prison bars

she goes home smelling of his cologne
and fear
opens the door
and there’s her husband
hair a mess
holding two mugs

“couldn’t sleep,” he says,
offering her the good cup
the one with the little blue flowers

he doesn’t ask
where she’s been
his eyes do
but his mouth is tired of wars

he just kisses her cheek
like she’s something fragile
worth careful hands

and that’s the worst of it

if he yelled
if he broke things
if he grabbed car keys and left skid marks on the past
she could hate him
pack a bag
run straight into the arms of the fire

instead
he stands there in his faded t-shirt
with his soft belly and quiet hope
and says,
“you look tired, baby.
sit down.
i’ll make breakfast.”

so she does

she sits at their table
same table where they signed mortgage papers
opened christmas gifts
argued about nothing
and everything

he’s humming some stupid song
burns the toast
swears softly
laughs at himself

and her phone buzzes in her pocket

one word from the other man:
“tonight?”

her heart drops like a coin in a slot machine
watching the wheels spin--
ring on her finger
key to the house
hand on her thigh in the back of a cab
her husband pouring orange juice
the other one pouring whiskey down his throat

she doesn’t answer

not yet

she just watches her husband
moving clumsily heroic around the kitchen
as if love were a leaky ceiling
he could fix with the right tools

and she realizes
no one ever told her
love could split you in half
and both halves could be wrong
and both halves could be right

“you okay?” he asks

she lies
like people do
when they want to protect the thing
they’re slowly killing

“yeah,” she says,
wrapping her hands around the warm mug,
burning her palms a little
because maybe
she thinks
she deserves it

and somewhere across town
the other man lights a cigarette
alone
already forgetting the question he sent

she takes a sip of coffee
too bitter
too hot

and in that small burn on her tongue
she knows
she’ll go to him again

and she’ll come back here again

caught between the man who would die for her
and the man who wouldn’t cross the street
but makes her feel briefly
gloriously
alive

it isn’t a love story
it isn’t even a tragedy

it’s just another woman
in another kitchen
at 5 a.m.

with a good man sleeping down the hall
and a bad one breathing in her chest
like a second, smaller heart
beating out of time
but beating
all the same.