Kayla Jessop
The air is still, stagnant in the frozen silence of our bedroom. In the kitchen, our grandfather clock— a gift given by generations before him— doesn’t click its usual sound. The box fan on our nightstand, a usual low humming distraction, is muffled by my concentration of watching his chest by the dim light of the moon peeking through the curtains—inhale and exhale.
Rise and fall.
Breathe in and out.
The motion is mesmerizing, a minuscule act metabolizing my sleep. Months ago, before the hissing, hate-filled arguments filled our hollowing relationship, sleepless nights weren’t silent and sordid. I would leave lust-laced kisses on the side of his cheek, down his neck, to his chest. I would let the longing linger until he woke from his slumber, searching for my lips in the darkness. After, I’d lay my head on his chest, falling asleep to our matched breaths.
But now, I watch him sleep, counting each breath as he breathes them, wanting to lay my weary head on the very same surface. The dip in the mattress deepens as he turns to his side, demanding distance from me even in his dreams.
Inhale and exhale.
Rise and fall.
Breathe in and out.
I want to roll him over, make him find my eyes in the darkness, and whisper how much I love him. Beg him for more beautiful moments: beach days basking in the sun, breathy kisses in the backseat of our parked car, and beg for him to stay in this broken home. I want to remind him of the six years of romance: rain-drops dancing on our skin as we rendezvoused past our teen curfew, renting Redbox films to watch on the raggedy furniture of our first rental, repeating I love you over and over as we ran out of breath, tucked between rumpled blankets.
Weeks ago, when I told my mother about the building of a break up, she said you have a habit of hoping for Hallmark. She didn’t ask about the small settlements and sorrys and soon this will pass sweet whisperings. My grandmother told me not all great loves make it to the graveyard while I sobbed, leaning against her granite counter. This heartbreak might put me there was on the tip of my tongue, but the tightness in my chest wouldn’t let me talk.
Inhale and exhale.
Rise and fall.
Breathe in and out.
When I got home, eyes swollen and saddened, I sat with him on our sofa and snuggled into his side. We just have to make it to the year of the wool, it will be better when the iron passes, I whispered into his now wet shirt. He’s silent, staring at the television. I feel his chest under my chin as he contemplates my countless pleas.
Inhale and exhale.
Rise and fall.
Breathe in and out.
No sound escapes his pursed lips, but he ever so gently pushes himself closer to me on the couch, placing his arm around my shoulders.
***
Kayla Jessop is a MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. Her nonfiction has been published in Tempo, Harpur Palate, Broad River Review; You Might Need To Hear This, Lindenwood Review, Variant Literature, and Press Pause Press. She does her best writing while sitting in coffee shops and daydreaming about possibilities. In her free time, when she’s not teaching, she enjoys cross-stitching and watching New Girl.