Sounds

Sounds

Morning rang of metal. The clink and clatter of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen into the bedroom. I don’t remember the smell of his French toast, but the crackling grease of bacon is as crisp as autumn leaves. After breakfast, buzzing filled the bathroom, from his Sonicare toothbrush to his electric shaver. Some mornings, there just wasn’t enough time for both. Secretly, this made me happy, because instead of listening to the hum of his razor, I could close my eyes and listen to the soft scratch of his scruff on my skin.

Passing into the afternoon, he cranked up the volume. Walking quickly to class, I listened to his shoes stridently scrape the sidewalk as I struggled to keep up with him. His voice climbed above the clamor of campus conversations. Sunny days meant soccer. I can’t recall the way he ran or the angle at which he kicked, but the clunk of his cleat connecting with the ball keeps in my mind.

After games, I could hear his heavy, irregular breathing, exposing his exhaustion and signaling shower time. The passive pitter-patter of the shower sang me to sleep as I sprawled on the bed, waiting for him. The swish of sliding hangers and the rustle of him dressing for work woke me. Rising, the bedsprings squeaked with sadness. Wishing he’d call in sick, I would tempt him, and his laugh would fill the room as his shoes scuffled toward the door.

The afternoon commotion culminated with the grinding, screeching of his brakes, telling me that he was home. Nights whispered, tickling my ears. I don’t remember the texture of his tie, but I can hear its sleek slip as he slid it off. I can’t remember the way he tasted, but his lips brushing mine painted the quiet with passion. The pianissimo of his fading Georgian accent pierced the silence and the dark. My head rising and falling on his chest, I listened to the rhythmic hum of his heartbeat. This is what I waited for all day. This is why I loved his sounds.

Then, his sounds started to sting me, seeping venom into the veins of our fragile happiness. The constant clicking of the keyboard and mouse mocked me. I deliberately tried to ignore his biting tone that sunk its teeth into our quarrels.

He was as silent as a hospital cubicle, one in which I might sit, a victim to his awkward, painful, haunting quiet. With his head down between his knees, he never looked at me, never said a word; he only stayed with me out of obligation. His deliberate, disregarding quiet penetrated every possible place in our lives: the breakfast, lunch, and dinner table, our walk to class, the drive to the supermarket, and, most painfully, the moments just before sleep. Turning his back to me, he wouldn’t let me hear his heartbeat. My ears knew it was over long before my heart.

Now, my mornings shuffle and scuffle as I scramble between my bedroom and bathroom. The only footsteps I hear are my own, but they are solid and strong. Afternoons rustle and click, turning pages of poetry and typing memoir. A strangely satisfying stillness saturates nights. My bed inaudibly bends to meet my curves; it doesn’t squeak, no matter how much I squirm. I let the day’s thoughts unravel, and an uncomplicated silence lulls my lids shut. I fall asleep alone. And I prefer it that way.