Read The Space Between Promises for Free Online Page A

seems, I am sure I can find myself again. I can reinvent myself with a little of this and a little of that. He will forget the years of pasta and look at me for the first time.
    ***

He is very quiet tonight. I do not hear him come home, and I don't hear him exchanging war threats over the headset. Most nights, I remain asleep on the couch for several hours, waiting until I hear the bathroom door open and close and know that he's on his way to bed. I will follow him in to bed. Tonight, I turn on the couch and open my eyes. He's staring at the television, not engaged. Thinking.

"Hi babe," I say in a small, groggy voice, one that he thinks is adorable. He returns the greeting. "Is there any dinner?" He asks quietly. "Yes," I say casually, holding my breath for a split second. "Macaroni and cheese. It's on the bottom shelf."
"Oh, I didn't see it." He doesn't refuse it! I breathe a sigh of relief. I go into the kitchen to reheat it, and I pretend to fall back asleep, listening for the sound of his eating. He polishes the entire dish clean, and sets it down. When he stands up and stretches, a sign that he is ready for bed, I pretend to wake up, and I say, "Did you like the macaroni and cheese?" "Yeah, it was good. I liked the onions in it."

I follow him to bed and he wraps his arm around my waist. I listen for the sound of his steady breathing, and I feel the calm that shrouds his body. This is the man I married. Content. Grateful for whatever I cook for him, grateful for a roof over his head and food in his children's bellies. Quiet and unassuming. Appreciative of the small things. He likes to chase me in the kitchen with a towel and smack my rear end with it. He likes to sneak up behind me with an ice cube on my neck. He lives for moments when I bend over to get a dish out of the dishwasher and he can grab my "bum bum,” as the kids call it, since "butt" is not permitted. He loves to tease, and he requires very little of life's acquisitions. He doesn't turn an eye toward another woman; he is not crude or vulgar. His words are few, and they are significant. He is intelligent and prudent.

I live and flourish for this man, yet I die, over and over, for the other, crushed beneath the weight of disapproval and fear, never knowing when his anger will erupt from deep within his core, melting my hope, searing my trust. Changing, always changing, the landscape of our love.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Ten
    They were royal blue, with white-walled tires. Old-fashioned handlebars, no extras. They were perfect.

"Gregory, look!" I gesture excitedly in the sports store. "They are matching bikes! Male and female. I want them! Oh, please say yes!"

There they stood, the perfect shiny couple, new and in love. Matching. Pretty. Bright. Identical vintage style bicycles. In an instant, I envisioned picnics in the park; backpack lunches, cloud-gazing on a blanket. And matching ... yes, matching bikes! They were stunning and impractical all at once, not to mention expensive. But we were young, without huge financial responsibility, and had outgrown our childhood and teenage bicycles long ago.

He stands in front of them, studying them, no doubt imagining himself, a rugged individualist, on one of these sissy blue and white bikes. I wrap my arms around his waist behind him, stand on tiptoes and plead in his ear. "Please, I just love them!"

"Whatever you want, babe. If it makes you happy." "Yes, yes!" I squealed like a child wheeling around to face him. He pats me on the back, not convinced. "Okay, then, let's buy us some ... blue ... and white ... bikes."

I jump up and hug him, and this reaction always seems to melt him. How could I find happiness with any other man? He loves seeing me smile and whatever is in his means to bring me happiness, he gives it.

"Okay, stand right there," I direct, later on. "Put one hand on the handlebar ... Yeah, yeah, like that ... Put your other hand on you hip. Okay, good. Wait, move