His parents were away for the weekend.
We had the beach house to ourselves.
They'd invited us down, insisted we house-sit as an anniversary gift.
Celebrating our first married year and now, our news last week, that baby made three.
A smidge of extra icing for
That old and preferable, still more socially acceptable order;
First the love, then the marriage, fallen tree, baby's carriage.
This time.
We would leave our footprints in the sand, take a photo on the pier.
The three days of their absence, we would celebrate as one.
We would watch the sea's shenanigans and flirtations of the sun from just across the street.
There'd be lots of staying in.
The plan was simple: steak dinner
(with baked potatoes, because that's fancy when you've been married one whole year.)
He cooked the steaks, I set the table.
We lit the candles on the table, of course.
Moonlit stroll, we happened across a grand celebration: the lighthouse on this tiny island was being re-lit.
It hadn't shone for a decade or more.
Each anniversary now, another year of shared life with one another and with this stately pillar of light.
Baby came later that year, and then, little by little, we continued to multiply.
Like filthy, senseless rabbits with no idea where babies come from.
~~~~
Christmas and we are in flip flops.
The beach house is now our house... too.
We are staying in his parents' back bedroom, our impossible little rabbit family, imposing ourselves on them.
Temporarily, of course.
We have chased our dreams, right here to the horizon.
If we sit here quietly a while, we may catch them suddenly in our nets, and carry them away
with the sea glass and broken shells in our old and rusty pails.
~~~
"What is it?" he craned to see in the box from across the room to see past the sea of ripped wrapping paper between us.
I'd gone quiet in a way that alarmed him.
I didn't look up, I couldn't.
"What?" from across the room, beside him. Her voice was tinged with mock confusion and dripping with secret glee. "I got you some of your own."
"Oh, cool. You love those don't you? Let me see. What do they smell like? " his own voice betrayed that he clearly saw what he was pretending not to notice.
He talks excessively when there's tension.
He doesn't realize this, so how would he know to stop?
I quietly tucked the tissue paper back around her gift and set the box on the ottoman.
Had tears threatened to spill? Maybe, but probably not in that moment. I don't cry, and I don't admit to crying. But if I were to indulge in that sort of thing, it would certainly only be in the shower...with the door locked... and the lights out...while biting a washrag...and even then, only so quietly it would technically have to be called sobbing.
I was careful not to slam the door.
Slamming the door would sound too much like "Thank you."
Deep breath and count to three, "1...2.."
There he stands, staring disapprovingly at me.
"What was that all about?" him, to me, incredulously."I thought you loved candles? And those are the nice kind that smell good."
There was nothing to do but wait.
Finally, the silence forced him to continue, to get it over with.
"What?" he asked, as if it weren't an accusation.
When I wouldn't supply him with words to hurl back my way, he continued,
"Well, you shouldn't have lit them. You should tell her you're sorry about it. And go tell them thank you for the gift. "
He left me to gaze at the closed door and to not cry... not just yet.
~~~
Flashback to sometime in September of the same year:
His parents were away for the weekend.
We had the beach house all to ourselves.
The rabbit children fed and tucked in early.
So many long work days, such a long commute; when he got in tonight, a fancy dinner would be waiting.
Candle light and soft music. It was to be romantic.
And for a flicker in time, maybe it resembled romance.
The kind that is a sort of wishful thinking.
But candlelight has a way of softening reality.
And in the morning, the sunlight's exposure was harsh.
We loaded the dishwasher, re-made their bed.
We scraped the now cooled wax from the mantle, then tucked our hands into our pockets and whistled toward the ceiling like we hadn't needed a weekend without them, like we hadn't enjoyed it.
We were quiet in a way that alarmed her.
"Who lit these?!" she wanted to know, as if there were an entire line-up of usual suspects, routinely lighting forbidden candles throughout her home.
Was I thrown under the bus? How came the reply? I was not in the room, but even before the days when she paid a private detective to follow me, she hadn't asked because she wanted to know; she asked because she did. She asked because she wanted a fight.
She wanted him to apologize for being happy, especially with the likes of me.
Of course I lit the candles.
Whatever he said, it was not a mutual crime.
I had lit the candles, had enjoyed the free time alone.
He wasn't even home.
"Honey... " she started, as she sat on the edge of my bed.
Her bed.
The bed she was lending me.
Our bed.
For a moment, we were in the same boat, literally the same bed.
In a flash, I was under water.
I can't remember the exchange.
Sometimes, verbatim is a strength of mine.
Other times, forgetting is the mercy.
I probably didn't meet her eyes.
I'm sure I was ashamed.
Also I was something I'm not sure I know the word for... something the opposite of loved.
I used to own a thesaurus.
The candles, she told me, cost eleven dollars apiece.
They came from a fancy store with itchy air and though they had wicks, they were never meant to be lit.
Fancy people knew this.
Obviously, I had not.
I consoled myself that truly rich people would light fancy candles whenever they pleased, burn them down to nubs.
They'd pull more fancy candles from their fancy candle drawer, where they waited next to matches in mass supply.
Only imposters would fret over the loss of two measly pillars that didn't look so fancy at all.
It was little consolation.
I'd made the error, I'd ruined a prized possession.
I did say I was sorry, but somewhere in my heart, I think I was only sorry for the way she was carrying on. I should've had more respect for her things. Years have helped me to see the other layers that were there. I naively thought candles were free game. And I presumed upon a grace she didn't extend toward me.
She had called me honey in such viloent sugared tones. I should have picked up on it, but I can be tone deaf.
Quickly he consoled her
Toss the candles, we'll buy you more.
(Last night meant nothing, I can't believe you lit her candles.)
As if together they'd caught me dancing alone in the candlelight
Together declaring
"She is such a silly rabbit"
~~~
How long can the flame of a memory sting?
Almost two decades later, I smoulder the thoughts as we pass a shelf of candles in a fancy gift shop.
These last two decades, the light of us hidden away.
Will we shine again?
It has taken me every minute, as well as time I'm not yet given
to understand that living near her flame demanded a fortress be built.
It has taken him as long to find the door, show her to it and dare to invite others in.
Sometimes, the door is still shut.
A Fortress of Solitude feels safest.
Even cold and devoid of flame.
