Church On Sunday

I hear the front door close and then stumbling in the hall. He's as drunk as hell.

Again.

Muttering to himself, he throws his keys on the hall table and clumsily makes his way up the stairs, making shushing noises.

"Can't wake the kids…" He slurs.

He needn’t have worried, they wanted to stay at their Uncle Mike's with Estella, Ramona and Frankito after the play-date. He'd have known that if he'd been home to say bye to them earlier.

There's a crash then "Fuck!"

I'm guessing he tripped on the stairs, or maybe he found the shoe that I had strategically placed.

Asshole.

As I lay in bed, I stare at the ceiling. My heart is beating from me, and I feel all alone. Is this what I have to resort to, to get my own back for him fucking up all the time? Lord knows we haven’t been right for a while, but he won't tell me what's going on. He just goes out all the time with Tre; either that or he's at the studio till late.
Maybe there's someone else, I don’t know.

It's quiet again, now.
The door to the bedroom creaks open, and I can see his small frame in the darkness.
He's undressing himself, one hand on the wall, the other trying to take off his shoe. He throws it to the ground and attempts to do the other one- all the time swaying.

I can smell the booze, mixed with his aftershave and stale cigarette smoke.

He's working himself out of his jeans, falling backwards. He bangs into the door, turns to it, placing a finger over his mouth; "Shhhh!"

He turns back again and whispers "Sorry…" at me with a drunken smile on his lips.
Finally, he makes his way to the foot of the bed, falling onto it while he laughs at himself.

I don’t think he knows I'm watching him.
I so badly want to touch him, have him hold me like he used to. We're lucky if we can even have a conversation these days, let alone a hug.

Then he's at his side of the bed, lifting the duvet to climb in. I turn onto my side and face the window. There’s a glow of light- the moon shines through a crack in the drapes and all of a sudden, our master suite is coloured with an eerie blue.

He sighs as he rests his head on the pillow.

Now would be a good time to say something, anything. But I can't find the words. There's a space a mile wide between us, yet we're in the same bed.

He's moving again, turning to face the door.

"I love you, Billie." I whisper. "I love you so much."

Hoping that he may have heard me, hoping that he may return the sentiment.

But it's too late. He's asleep. I know because he's snoring softly. So I close my eyes, dreading the mood he'll be in tomorrow, thanks to his hangover. I start going over the things I have to do, gently allowing the sound of his breathing to lull me to sleep.
Then I hear him speak- it's muffled, barely audible, but I hear him;

"I love you too, Tre."

Suddenly I'm not sleepy. A solemn tear falls to the pillow beneath me.