Day 43 - Lonely, but Found?

Lonely, but Found? 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The ringing in Arnold’s ear was getting worse. The left more so than the right. Either way, bad enough to be a nagging reminder of the sad fate that awaited. He hadn’t even done anything to warrant ear damage. Rock concerts and loud bars were not his thing. He wore protective earmuffs when he mowed the lawn or visited a shooting range. Still, old age was creeping in for no good reason. Just like his acid reflux. Or the left knee. Or that aches and pains that traveled up and down his back depending on what time of day it was.

Forty six. A lifetime. Maybe a lifetime left. No one could tell for sure.

The mornings were lonely. The nights were lonely. Lying in an empty bed was lonely. Lying next to a strange woman was lonely.

He had looked for salvation, for the one who could fix things, heal him, inspire him, make things right, make him feel like there was a purpose to his life. But the years had sped up too much and Hollywood rom-coms didn’t hold as much magic as they once had.

He was lonely. He had a sinkhole where his heart should he. He had tried to fill it with substances, habits good and bad, and the occasional bed-mate. But he wasn’t waiting for a savior anymore. He could be satisfied with good conversation and limited baggage.

Emily had never seen him in another woman’s arms before and he didn’t want that for her. She knew that he had been serious with other women before he met her; she had no false notions about his past. The two of them had gotten married when they were thirty; they had only met three years prior. She knew that in his early twenties he had been very close to marrying another woman. She knew about that, but never had to meet her.

Still, she had never had to see it before and he didn’t want her to be surprised when it happened. He knew it would hurt. Both of them. Perhaps all three. No matter what they said, no matter how they pretended they only wanted good things for each other, he and Emily would always be linked in some fashion.

He could call her. Tell her. Warn her.

It would be a terrible conversation. It might end their relationship. He hated to call it a friendship because it was so much more and so much less all at the same time. Relationship meant something more lasting. They could hate each other, argue, yell, drift apart, but they’d always find some way back. Friendships ended. Too often. With ever increasing speed. Relationships stood the test of time. They might be divorced, but they’d always be in a relationship.

Emily had remarried. She didn’t call him to tell him she was going to date someone else. She didn’t call him to say she had fallen in love. He hated the idea of her with another man, but he also understood she wasn’t his. He couldn’t hold her living life against her. She had given him many chances. Early on. Before the divorce. After the divorce. He could many things differently.

She didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t owe her either, he supposed. But he wanted to. For there to be a future, he owed her some basic level of respect to tell and to try to care for her feelings. They had overcome so many things together; he wasn’t going to lose her by being inconsiderate.

She deserved to know. He would call her. Tell her. Explain it to her and they would find a path forward. Soon. He would do it soon. He promised himself. He was sure he would. Very very soon.