The Geography of longing

The envelope was in her lingerie drawer for 47 days. She knew the exact number because each morning when she lifted her panties she would count the thick cream-colored paper in her fingers, like a guilty caress. She never took it out of the box. She didn't need to. She recalled his elegant loops on the front of her handwriting, and that was all she needed. That was everything. A coffee maker was beeping from somewhere in the apartment. Mark's footsteps were measured and predictable, like a metronome on the hardwood floor. He would be in the kitchen now, making 2 cups of coffee, adding one teaspoon of sugar to his, as he remembered all the details from their third date. He remembered everything. That then was the trouble. "Elena? Those in charge of the buses will tell you to be late. His voice was soothing and comforting as it came out of the door of the bedroom. The voice of a man who never had cause for her to doubt him. A man who would plan for vacations six months ahead of time and had a color-coded spreadsheet for his pension plan. A man who loved her like he loves a good investment—sensibly, steadily, with passionless love. She closed the drawer and went to the mirror. The woman gazing at her was thirty, and had lovely highlights and a neutral coloring which Mark had already praised. She was a woman's face, as if she were the wife of somebody. Someone's future mother. A person who made the right choices, and came to live in a room where he was smothering his life. She whispered to herself, "The Geography of Longing. It was the one she had been mulling over since Monaco; the one Luca had uttered in the garden, when he was pointing to the Mediterranean and saying, "Look, how it stretches to the horizon. Always reaching. Never arriving. There was no way she would have seen it then that he was saying the very thing about her. Mark came into the doorway, his brow furrowed. He was the kind of handsome that was built on good bones and good intentions—strong jaw, kind eyes, the mildness of his middle that was the result of too much takeout and not enough gym. It was his favorite sweater, the navy one she had given him for Christmas 3 years ago. She recalled the gift receipt was still in the drawer in an envelope. “You OK?” he inquired. “You've been looking at yourself for the last 5 minutes.” Five minutes. She had no idea! She tried to smile and said, "Fine. "Just tired." It was a lie. She wasn't tired. She was haunted. Now they had returned from their various trips for seven weeks. Mark had spent his vacation with his brothers in Aspen skiing and drinking craft beer, and taking pictures of snow-covered mountains, which she had deleted without ever opening. She had spent her in Monaco, alone and as a gift to herself, a week of independence, before making her home in the comfortable prison that was her engagement. Only she hadn't gotten engaged. Mark had been delaying the proposal, as he had felt something was amiss. He had felt it when she got off the plane, when the sun's warmth had colored her skin, and a distance had been added to her eyes. She had been kissing him hello. She would allow him to take her out for dinner. That night she had been lying next to him, in the dark, her whole body against his, and had closed her eyes and seen the Mediterranean. She'd seen Luca. Mark said, “Breakfast is ready,” and he pulled her back to the here and now. I've made such eggs as you like, the ones with herbs. Her favorite. He remembered. She trailed his steps into the kitchen and passed a framed photograph of her and him on the hallway wall (They'd taken a picture of themselves when they graduated from high school, and they'd taken a photo of their first apartment, their weekend they'd adopted a rescue cat who died and the photo of which was still in place, etc.). A show of a kinship in decline, a museum of a slow-to-become-mausoleum relationship. There was a coffee and rosemary aroma in the kitchen. The sun was shining brightly in the morning sky, casting a glow on the dust motes in the air. It was a beautiful, clear, Seattle morning – a morning on which you could believe in fresh starts. Mark gave her a mug. Mark gave her a cup of tea. I was thinking," he said, "Maybe we should talk about the future?" he added, and something in his voice made her grip begin to tighten even more. The mug shook as it clutched in her hands. "The future?" "Our future." He stretched out his hand and grabbed her free hand. There was warmth in his hand, familiarity, the hand that had held her during her father's funeral, when she was scared of her promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, when she was worried about all the trivial things that had happened over the past five years. But I think since I was talking to you about waiting till I got promoted, I'm going to go ahead and do it now! He stopped. He was just looking at her with that face she hated, the one he knew he was about to give her some news. Her phone buzzed. In the stillness of the kitchen, the sound was like a gunshot. Before she could see the screen, her heart suddenly pounded, and she pulled her hand away from the counter and pulled it off. But it wasn't him. It was her mother that sent her a picture of the garden she had just planted. Carefully arranged tomato and lavender. The same garden she had been photographing for the past three years! Elena knew there was a feeling she had of something falling in her chest. Disappointment. Relief. Guilt. Both. Mark was gazing at her. "Who was it?" "Just my mom." She placed the phone down, shivering from the shaking of her fingers. What is it you said? He shook his head; there was some flickering behind his eyes. Suspicion? Hurt? She was no longer able to distinguish. Wait until they're hot, eat your eggs. She ate the eggs. They were no better than cardboard tasting. But nothing else could come to her mind: the envelope in her drawer, the letter that she couldn't get through to open, the man who wrote it, and the oath she had sworn in a garden near the sea. It's always possible to go back. She was unaware of what she was promising. She didn't realize it was going to be difficult to remain.