After Eleven: Liv & Callum

11 PM (Olivia)

I don't see him at 9.

I don't see him at 9:30.

I don't see him at 10:00.

It's 10:15 when I put away the wine glasses that I put out on the coffee table. It's 10:20 when I do my final sweep of the house and check in with Andrea to make sure that Annie settled. She loves her auntie and cousins, so of course she did. We make plans for me to get her in the morning.

It's 10:45 when I hear Cal's key in the door, the deadbolt sliding back into place. I can hear him try to avoid the creaky spots in our old floorboards, but they're all creaky. He waits until he's in our adjoining bathroom to turn the light on and start his shower. It doesn't really matter, because I can't bring myself to admit that I stayed up even later for him.

It's 11:00 when he slips into bed and I realize that my marriage, my partnership, is in a much worse state than the roommate stage.

If there's one thing that I can count on, it's that my alarm will go off at 5:15. Cal can sleep through almost anything, so It's never been a huge issue that I'm an early riser and he's a night owl. This morning, however, I don't take the extra care that I usually do to be quiet while he sleeps.

    I roll out of bed and let my pillow flop behind me. I turn the light on in the bathroom before I close the door, and I close the door harder than I usually would. I'm being passive aggressive, which I usually hate, but I'm feeling raw and neglected and if Cal wanted more sleep then he should have been home earlier.

The hot shower doesn't do much for me this morning, and it's because I can still feel a balloon of anxiety in my diaphragm. Even though I love Cal, and I know that he loves me, there is a bone-deep uneasiness that I feel this morning. Something slimy and foreboding that sticks inside.

The sound of the bathroom door opening and then snicking shut breaks me out of my trance, and I stop staring at the wall. I know Cal woke up, probably because of me, but I did most of the talking yesterday and I feel like it's his turn. Instead, I turn to our shower caddy and pick up my favorite overpriced shampoo.

"Can I join you?" I move the shower curtain to peek at Cal, and I probably shouldn't have. The dark green of the curtain gives the hot shower a feel of safety that rushes out and is replaced by cold air. Now I'm chilly, but I take a second to look at my husband.

He has always been gorgeous, to me and most other people. Teetering between 5'11" and 6', Cal keeps in shape and has an olive tone to his skin that gives him a year round tan. He doesn't have a 6-pack, but regular visits to the gym and a healthy diet have kept him muscular, with a little belly that shows he still enjoys ice cream with his daughter and a few glasses of whiskey every week. His hair is dark and thick, and compliments the beard that he brushes and oils every day.

When we were dating, he kept it stubbly but I kept getting rashes so he grew it out and it's done wonders for him. A sharp jaw, strong dimpled chin, and wide shoulders round out a truly delicious package.

If we were having this conversation yesterday, I would have relished the opportunity to let him wash my hair, which has always been a particular favorite ritual between us. I don't remember the last time I felt his hands on my scalp, though, and that adds a bitter sadness to the anxiety I'm feeling.

"No thanks, I'm almost done." Even to my own ears my voice sounds too nonchalant.

I'm working conditioner into the ends of my hair when he tries again, probably not expecting my rejection after the way that I've been clinging to him when he's home these last few weeks.

"I'm sorry that I was short with you on the phone yesterday, and I'm sorry that I came home late after promising that I would be home at 9. It was shitty of me to do that, and I don't like how I treated you yesterday."