Called

LIGHT | 1-1

LIGHT 1

Sean!

I jerked awake, the echo of the name in my head merging with the trilling of the alarm clock. With an inward groan, I slapped my hand on the snooze.

Movement behind told me I’d disturbed Peter. A second later, his arm reached out to draw me back against him, and I lowered my lids, drifting back to thoughts of my dream.

Other than watching myself wandering around some forest, not much had happened in it. Yet, the vividness of the imagery lingering in my mind had me questioning the significance of the dream I’d had for the past four nights. Just as I puzzled over the name I’d been greeted by for the past three mornings, as well as the past three afternoons, and the past three evenings.

At the second call of the clock, I hit the switch again and rolled to face Peter. Inhaling, I detected the lingering odour of the previous night’s meal upon his breath, the unintended ejaculated fluid that always escaped during sleep, and each separate fragrance of the toiletries he’d used in his pre-dinner shower the evening before.

His eyes snapped open. “Are you sniffing me again?”

I smiled with my spoken, “No,” and slid from the bed.

At the door, I snagged my gown and pulled it over my matching nightdress before heading downstairs. I plodded into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. With a tilt of my head, I tracked Peter’s footsteps to the bathroom, where he performed his morning urination at a volume only men are capable of.

By the time I made my way back upstairs, carrying a tray laden with two mugs of cappuccino and a plateful of toast, Peter had slid back beneath the duvet to await our ritual of breakfast in bed.

He smiled when I handed him the tray and climbed in beside him. “Thanks, Jem.”

I reached out for a slice of toast and tried to eat without filling the bed with crumbs. Peter made no such effort. As his housewife, I’d be expected to clean it up later.

Peter downed his cappuccino before returning to the bathroom.

When I climbed from the bed, I brushed out the hiding crumbs and straightened the duvet. After ensuring Peter’s work clothes were folded neatly on the end of the bed for him, I headed back down with the tray.

As usual, it took Peter only fifteen minutes to get ready for work. He strode into the kitchen in his cement-stained trousers, his close-cropped hair groomed to perfection.

I laughed as he grabbed me, bent me backward like a finale of the Tango, and planted a hard kiss on my lips.

“Have a good day, Jem.”

“You, too,” I said as he straightened us.

He gave me one final squeeze before ducking into the hall to pull on his work boots. A few seconds later, the click of the front door announced his departure, to supervise what he referred to as his minions at the site where he worked.

Once alone, I took a shower, and with hot water running over my shoulders, I tried to figure out the dream that refused to leave my mind. Four nights of recurrence meant I could recall it well: the calm expression upon my face as I’d walked amongst nature, trailing my hands across bark as though completely at one with my surroundings. Although I hadn’t experienced them directly, I could imagine the scents of the forest, as though I had actually been there.

Sean!

The name exploded inside my mind—a word my mind chose to conjure without warning since the first occurrence of my dream. I could’ve coped with the incessant invasion of my thoughts, but the accompanying twitch to my body and unexpected shivers of exhilaration that coursed through me each time were something else entirely. I didn’t even like the name Sean.

Back in the bedroom, I kneeled to slide out my bottom drawer. Inside were my favourite items of clothing—the ones I only wore when I knew I wouldn’t be seen by Peter. Everything else, found in the drawers above and the wardrobe, consisted of skirts, dresses, blouses, sandals—feminine wear, which men like Peter preferred to find their women in on their return from work. I guessed what he couldn’t see, couldn’t hurt him.

Dressed in knee-length denim shorts and a pink vest, I tackled my blonde hair with the straightener. Given the choice, I’d have left it to its own devices—I much preferred it wild and untamed—but my life wasn’t always about what I wanted. As wife, and provider of food and s*x to Peter, my life revolved around what he wanted, what he needed me to be.

***

* * * *

WITH ONLY TWO MINUTES to spare, I pulled up outside the four-bedroom detached house of my best, and only, friend. From my little Peugeot, I walked to the front door and knocked.

“One minute.” The muffled call came from upstairs somewhere, and ten seconds later, the pound of footsteps followed. The door opened to reveal a smiling Poppy.

“Are you ready?” I knew she wouldn’t be.

“Come in a mo.” She stepped back to grant access. “I just need to find my shoes. Ben must have hidden them again.”

Smiling at the mention of Poppy’s eight-year-old son, I stepped inside. “So, what did you have on your feet when you went to the school?”

“Trainers,” she said. “I want my sandals for shopping.”

I rolled my eyes, heading for the huge corner-suite to settle in for the wait. Past experience told me I could be there for as long as twenty minutes. I flopped back as Poppy ran up the stairs, and soon the sounds of spraying and thuds carried down to me. The latter, combined with the occasional grunt, suggested she searched for her missing shoe.

Only ten minutes later—a record for Poppy on a search mission—she reappeared with a pair of sandals and a smile. “Got them.”

***