The Unraveling Vow

The sound of Greg's keyboard is a metronome. It's been ticking since seven. I've been awake since five.

I lay in the dark, listening to the click of keys from the living room, the soft creak of his chair, the occasional sigh. I know these sounds better than I know my own heartbeat. It's six months now. Six months since he's touched me. Not a hand on my back as he passes in the kitchen. Not a kiss on the cheek before he leaves for work. Nothing. Just the click, click, click of keys.

I roll onto my side, the sheets tangling around my thighs. It's a queen bed. We used to joke that we needed a king, that we'd get lost in it, that we'd have to send out search parties. Now it feels like an ocean. I'm on my island, he's on his, and the space between us is cold water.

He's not a bad man. That's the thing. Greg is kind. He remembers my birthday. He brings home takeout from the place on 9th Avenue that I like. He asks about my day. He just doesn't see me. Not anymore.

I get up. The floor is cold. I pad into the kitchen, and there he is. His back is to me, hunched over the laptop, his dark hair a mess. He's wearing the same gray t-shirt he wore yesterday. There's a coffee mug beside him, half-full, gone cold. He doesn't turn around.

"Morning," I say.

He grunts. The keys don't stop.

I open the fridge. The light makes me squint. I stare at the shelves. Milk, eggs, a sad lemon. I'm not hungry. I'm just looking for something to do with my hands. I close the fridge and lean against the counter.

"Did you sleep?" I ask.

"Some," he says. "Deadline."

There's always a deadline. He's a coder. Or a developer. Or whatever the word is this week. He builds apps. He builds things that live on screens. He used to build things with me. I remember a time when he'd leave his phone in the other room. When he'd look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. When his hands would find me in the dark.

I pour myself a glass of water. The tap sputters. I drink it standing up, watching his shoulders. They're tense. They're always tense.

I want to walk over. I want to put my hands on him. I want to slide my fingers under that gray t-shirt and feel his skin. I want him to flinch, but in a good way. In a way that means he feels me. But I don't. I've tried. The last time I tried, he said he was tired. The time before that, he said his back hurt. The time before that, he didn't say anything at all. He just moved my hand away. Like it was a fly.

That was two months ago. I stopped trying after that.

I'm 28. I'm not old. I know I'm not old. But I feel like I'm disappearing. I look in the mirror and I see a woman who's still here. Curves that used to make him grin. Hair that he used to tangle his fingers in. I'm still here. But he's not looking.

I go back to the bedroom. I pull on jeans, a sweater. I don't bother with makeup. What's the point? I grab my bag and my keys. I stop at the door.

"I'm going out," I say.

"Okay," he says. The keys don't stop.

I wait. I don't know what for. Maybe for him to ask where. Maybe for him to look up. He doesn't. I close the door behind me.

The hallway smells like someone's cooking bacon. Mrs. Kravitz from 4B. She's always cooking something. I walk down the stairs, my hand sliding along the railing. The building is old. The stairs creak. I like the noise. It's real. It's something I can hear.

Outside, the city is loud. It's always loud. Horns, sirens, the rumble of the subway under the street. I walk without a destination. I just need to move. I need to feel my legs working. I need to feel the cold air on my face.

I pass the coffee shop where we used to go on Sundays. I pass the park where we had our first kiss. I don't stop. I keep walking. I'm not sad. I'm angry. I'm so angry I could scream. But I don't. I just walk.

I end up at the bookstore on 12th. It's small. It smells like paper and dust. I like it here. I wander the aisles. I run my fingers along the spines. I'm not looking for anything. I'm just touching. Feeling. The books are solid. They're real.

I'm in the poetry section when I see him. He's tall. Dark hair, a little long. He's wearing a black coat. He's reading a collection of Neruda. He's mouthing the words. I watch him for a second. He's not Greg. He's not hunched over a screen. He's here. He's in the world.

He looks up. He catches me watching. I should look away. I don't.

He smiles. It's a small smile. A knowing smile. Like he knows something I don't.

"Good choice," he says. His voice is low. It's a nice voice.

I look at the book in my hand. It's a collection of Anne Sexton. I didn't even realize I picked it up.

"I don't know," I say. "I've never read her."

"You should," he says. "She's intense."

He goes back to his book. I go back to mine. But I'm not reading. I'm thinking about his smile. I'm thinking about the way his voice sounded. I'm thinking about Greg's keyboard. Click, click, click.

I buy the book. I don't need it. I just want to hold it. I want to have something from this moment. I walk home. The apartment is quiet. Greg is still at the laptop. He's in the same position. He hasn't moved.

"I'm back," I say.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't look up.

I go to the bedroom. I sit on the bed. I open the book. The words blur. I close it. I lie back. I stare at the ceiling. I think about the man in the bookstore. I think about his smile. I think about his hands. I wonder what they would feel like on my skin.

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But I do.

The next day, I go back to the bookstore. I tell myself I'm just looking for another book. I tell myself it's nothing. But I'm looking for him. I'm looking for the man in the black coat.

He's there. In the poetry section. He's reading again. He looks up when I walk in. He smiles. The same smile.

"Back for more?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess I am."

I don't know his name. I don't ask. I don't want to know. I just want to stand here. I want to feel this. I want to feel something.

And I do. I feel the heat in my chest. I feel the flutter in my stomach. I feel alive. For the first time in six months, I feel alive.

I know it's wrong. I know it's a betrayal. But right now, in this moment, I don't care. I just want to feel. I just want to be seen.

And he sees me. He sees me.