truth in soul lending

I picture him reading the newspaper. Sitting on the back steps, barefoot, wearing cuffed jeans, probably smoking. 

He has the hands of a man who works; deep wrinkles, strong-set like canyons traversing the saddle landscape of his skin. But it isn't from hard labor it is from washing his hands too much- that's not to say what he does isn't hard because it is, just not in that way.

I can see the morning light as it swirls in the sheen of hair on his forearms. It glints like salt on caramel. He wears a silver watch and a thin leather cord bracelet. He rolls up the sleeves of his unbuttoned oxford leaving his t-shirt untucked. He could use a shave. And at his neckline the gray is just starting to march in. 

He reads paperback novels that he viciously folds in half.  
He fishes for the scenery not the catch.
He loves the way gravel sounds under the tires of his truck when pulls off the side of the road but he would never really go 'offroading'.
He hates lightening.
He eats corned-beef-hash at least 3 times a week. 
He drinks his coffee backwards; it's too hard to explain.
He sleeps with his hands tucked under his head like a child praying.
He prefers dogs but if a cat is bold in the right ways he will pet it- as long as no one is looking.
He has a scar that runs diagonally down his left should blade. He tells those who ask about it that it was from slipping under a barbwire fence fleeing a cow pasture. He's told that story so many times he believes it himself.

Part of me wants to sit beside him. 
Read over his shoulder and feel his hand on my leg. 

I get in these moods where I want to tell him I was wrong and he was right; I should have given him a second chance.

But I never will because there is a flood where my words would be. A rush of images and feeling that break loose together whenever I think of confessing this to him. 

I can see him drunkenly balancing a dark bowl of spicy noodles floating in salty gingered broth as he tries to convince me to eat with him after a big fight.  The warm leathery smell of his car the night he split open my elbow pushing me back into the sharp corner of his stove as I was trying leave. The heat behind his disapproving glare across a conference table because he didn't like the dress I was wearing or the person I was seated beside. 

I know I was right not to give him a second chance but it doesn't change what I miss about him.  It doesn't change the broken parts of me that found comfort in his peremptory. 

I didn't have to think.
I didn't have to hide. 
I didn't have to try.
He did it all, and then some.

He tallied all the details. He set every scene. He ordered for me, picked our movies, our music, he bought my clothing, & he nagged me about the length of my hair until he got his way. 

He watched and listened, always hunting. He was relentless and I could sleep there with him knowing the price of everything. 

Predictable, strong, and steadfast- in all  the wrong ways.  And when it didn't feel like drowning, it felt so very good.

Over the phone line I hear myself say, "I think I miss you." 
He lets out a sigh I can feel the intensity of it from 4 states away.  I picture his head in his hand as he answers, "Feeling self destructive are we? You don't need me for that. You have always been your own worse enemy." 

I know he is smiling. I can hear it in his voice. And I can hear him typing. "Hmm," he grunts, "Flights between here and there don't look so bad...."
"If you come I won't see you." I remind him.
"I know." He says; we both feel the deepness.
 We are silent then he starts to laugh, "Sweetness, I think I miss me too."

I picture him sitting on the back steps, his laptop beside him, the phone to his ear.  

He loves mayonnaise and sweet pickles.
He scrambles eggs with a fork.
His mid-western drawl gets heavier when he drinks.
And the diagonal scar on his back is from a failed suicide attempt when he was only 12 years old....but I try not to think about that.