blemish

This time it came via ipod. Other times it comes on a billboard, a word or phrase screaming at me, or a certain color or a restaurant menu, but today it came through a song.
I can't listen to this song, I said. I'm really sorry. Leighann immediately moved on to the next song on the playlist. She asked no questions, and I loved her for that. The 1,539th reason she is my friend. Our conversation picked back up, and I was happy, occupied the rest of the 100 mile drive home from the beach and the dinner and visit with her parents.
Then Mr. Independent and I gave hugs, said our goodbyes, and drove away. The shaking started, heartbeat increased, and insides tumbled and rolled and warmed, no longer having the grace of distraction. The song that played briefly, hours ago, now replayed over and over and over and over and over and over in my brain cruelly reminding me that Someone Else was there before me. Someone Else was loved. Someone Else was wanted, desired. Someone Else was devastating. My heart contorted and squeezed until my face felt warm and my breath felt absent.
I managed the 35 minute drive home and managed to say prayers with Mr. Independent and managed a shower and answering emails that needed immediate attention and washing sandy clothes, but now-now that prayers have been said and clothes put in the washer and sand washed out of my salty hair, now I sit in my house nearly silent except for the washer and the fan and my newly created Vienna Teng station on Pandora and think: We've put this behind us. We've talked and talked about this. We have moved on. Things have gotten better. Except they haven't.
I know that five years, two wedding rings, and a child later it shouldn't hurt. Arguably it shouldn't have ever hurt. Things that happened in the past, Before Me, shouldn't affect the present or the future. But they do. And every now and then I'm reminded of that.
Soon he will unlock the door, and he will sit on the couch next to me and ask me about my day at the beach, and I will tell him. I will be tentative, as I always am when this comes up, and he will listen, as he always does, and not say much because he doesn't ever say much, and I will feel better, or at least I will say that I feel better. Then he will put after-sun on my pink back, and I will tell him how the drive didn't feel like any time at all and how Mr. Independent lay in the sand and said "night night" and how he squealed when the waves kissed the bottoms of his feet. Then I will fall into a restless sleep and distract myself, although not completely, not for awhile, but then I will forget, briefly, and life will continue. Until I'm reminded again.