Silk Stockings

Hour 2 into Braveheart, which also coincided with hour 4 in the morning, I was ready for bed. Chrstopher paused the movie long enough to turn down his bed for me and I collided into the pillows. He turned the bedroom TV on for me even though I told him I was too tired to need it. He then kissed me goodnight, turned out the lights and closed the door.

Hour 6 in the morning, I awoke to a lit bedroom. Christopher was standing at the base of the bed. "Where's the TV remote? I can't find it."

"Just press the button on the TV. We'll find it tomorrow," I mumbled.

"No, help me find it now."

I sighed and pushed back the covers. And then I did what I always do when I lose a remote in bed. I laid on my stomach and dangled my head under the bed.

I didn't see the remote. What I did see, however, was a pair of women's stockings. I reached under and grabbed them. Silk. Nice. I've never owned a pair of silk stockings in my life.

"You forgot these," I said flatly as I flung them at Christopher.

He spread them out across the bed. "Ooohhh," he whispered.

I abandoned the remote search and flopped back under the covers annoyed. Heavily annoyed.

"These are old," he started.

"Mrmph." I know. I know they are old and I know he isn't cheating. I know all of this.

"I know who this belongs to. I haven't seen her since November of 2007."

"Hmph." I know all of this because this isn't the first time I've found another woman's calling card stuck somewhere in the bed area.

In college, it was in Poet's bed that I removed an entire green tank top that was stuck between the wall and the bed while I was making it. It belonged to a neighbor that he used to sleep with and was now close friends.

After college, it was black panties. Black panties always look skanky when they aren't yours.

I was cool the first two times. Understanding like a supergirlfriend. This time I was not. I inquired as to why he hasn't cleaned under his bed in two years, and then told him I didn't think he was being very empathetic. He told me he didn't do anything wrong. He slept with a girl two years before me; I couldn't possibly be upset. I ignored him while he apologetically spooned me.

For me, it was more than the silk stockings. It was the bubble bursting. Right or not, I held him to a higher standard. Christopher was now like all the other boyfriends who inexplicably don't clean around their beds. He's capable of hurting me. He's capable of leaving me.

And, god, with him I just didn't think it was going to be this way.