I Miss...Her

Please know this story has a sex scene between a MARRIED COUPLE.

I am looking out at a sea, in Ireland.

I am from this country—Irish I am.

I miss you.

I miss your auburn waves, cascading down your back.

The ocean’s waves do not curl as much as yours.

The river’s ripples do not impress me as much as your hair.

And your eyes—hazel, right?

I hope this poem finds you well.

Aren’t you fishing today? I thought you might be walking down the catwalk—

Poised and beautiful. Your hair—gorgeous.

You're stunningly beautiful in such a sunshine-yellow dress,

Heels, tiny purse, eyes so pretty.

You could teach them all how to strut down the catwalk like a model boasting many fashions.

A diamond necklace would blind them, so they’d have to hear to know of your beauty.

Don’t let them pressure you into giving away your looks, your style, your constant glow.

Your radiant smile dazzles me.

Every time I see you, my wife, you beautify the room.

Light it up with such love, such desire to be with you.

Win every show.

Win every contest.

Have you been awarded yet?

I assume so.

But, dear, you’re enough for me.

Even if you come home with an award, you are my reward.

The thing I treasure most is you.

Do you know why?

I love you.

I sent the letter off. She replied she didn’t know I loved her that much. I wrote I loved her more than a good hot meal after a hard day’s work, more than a bubble bath at the end of a hard day’s work, more than a good fish and chips dinner and more than our own home country. She said she felt I didn’t love her—I loved her features. I replied I loved her, remembering all the times I gifted her with candles, a make-up kit, a kitten, a puppy and a necklace worth thousands.

How can I convince her? Do I just talk about the things we did together, said together and thought about together? I’ve told her ‘I love you’ multiple times a day. Do I not mean it? I’m only twenty-two. She’s a year and a half younger. Does she not like our marriage? Has she grown cold and bored over the year? We got married almost two years ago. We dated all through high school and college. I went to my local coffee shop, ordered a cappuccino and sat awhile, shaking my head slightly, putting my hand to my forehead. Someone asked whether I’m okay. I nodded.

They mutter I’m lying.

I say I’m worried about my wife. She’s overseas, and I don’t know what’s gotten into her. It’s not my fault I’m ignored! The person continues making coffee, adding a side of cookie or muffin to the order. I tell her to her face I’m not a liar, demanding she apologize. She snorts. I jump over the counter, yelling she’s not to incur such a disgusting attitude. Some employees try to tell me to leave!

She’s my wife. I bark, but I can’t stop. I whine, pant and…wag my tail? I chase it—

I’m a dog!

I continued barking, even baring my teeth. Yeah, that’s right, lady! Take it all back, you scoundrel. You fool! I’m not going down without a fight. Suddenly, I lunge right for her jugular—

Crack!

I yowl so loud I think I called the animal control officers to come get me.

But why would I do that?

I found myself on a counter—halfway, with my legs dangling—and I barely have time to get off before someone muzzles me. Dragged out of that shop, I know I’m never allowed back inside. On the way to the dog pound, where the people said I was going to be locked up until they could put me down, I desperately thought of a way out of there. Once there, a lady puts me in a place called a fenced-in room. I barked non-stop. Soon, a vet arrives, upholding a vile-looking needle, tearfully saying he’d have to put me down for attacking an innocent woman. I widened my eyes, retreating to the farthest corner, but the vet held the power—he unlocked the fence door. I snarled, my hackles raised.

Nothing worked.

The needle went for me; I screamed (at least internally) and went for him. I didn’t care if I had mauled his face. I wasn’t done living yet. I needed to be with my wife again. I was too young to die! Then, I found myself flying! Talons extended from my feet. I flapped and cawed. Banging the door open, I screeched, escaping.

Then I, smiling, fell. I let myself fall. Freely fall to my death.

No, birds aren’t that stupid.

I can breathe, underwater. Some school passes me. “Want to join, fish?”

What kind of fish am I, I wonder. I ask.

“Why, a Herring!”

I shrug, or at least try. I say no, swimming away. If she’s fishing, great! I can surprise her. I can tell her about today’s adventure. I see something metallic. A boat! I swim so fast I almost ram into it. Splashing in and out, I notice no one’s in it. I look on land, daring to go above water for a few seconds. I see no one.

As I swim through the night, the sunset paints the water dazzling orange and yellow hues. I start to wonder: does my wife love me? I spend so much time revealing my love to her—the times I’ve spent adoring every minute we spend together, her head on my lap as we laugh about good times in high school while munching our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches packed in a basket sitting on a checkered picnic blanket: movies with buttery and salty popcorn, making brownies topped with gooey frosting. Did she not enjoy those moments?

I rested, wary of intruders. Suddenly, a fish hook! Could it be hers? I imitated a dolphin, arching in and out. Someone cried that they almost caught me. I smirked inwardly.

Hah! You’ll never get me, I’m too slippery.

I bolted away, swimming into the morning, the person’s groan long gone. Rested again. I swam slowly, ever hopeful. Then horrible thoughts plagued me. What if she caught me? What if she ate me?! By nightfall, I shapeshifted into a man, relieved I was alone. Butt-naked, I quickly grabbed the nearest palm branch on this island.

Somehow, I made a skirt and shirt out of palm branches. I tried moving, but I still felt exposed. Looking for any land, I shielded my eyes with one hand, the sun beating down. Come on, there’s got to be a place I can go and buy some real clothes!

I had no idea where I was. Was I on Madagascar? Was I in the Caribbean? I could be off the coast of Guam for all I knew. I surveyed my surroundings. No living thing was present—just these palm trees. Hawaii, South American countries, India and even Mexico came to mind. I mean, they were all places located far away from any snow or ice or frozen land. The palm branches really itched, but I didn’t dare take them off. When I collected some to make a raft, I used some thick sticks as oars to paddle my way away from here—

I didn’t know palm branches sunk. Considering all these palm branches were all around me, someone had to have cut them down. Palm trees didn’t just lose their branches like pine trees lost their pines. Something was up. So I scavenged the island, wary of anyone. Soon, it got dark. I didn’t dare sleep. I called, yelled and barked orders. I even turned into that mad dog back at the shop. I felt I was going to go crazy with fear and anger if no one showed up. And no one did.

I stood still. The only sound were the waves lapping against the shore. I grew restless, desperate for a boat or ship or even a canoe. I blinked back tears. What was to come of me? I didn’t want to turn into any sea creature. What if they didn’t see me? And I got speared by someone? Or I was bullied by a shark into…? Never mind. I jumped in, palm branches traded for smooth, rubbery skin. As a shark, I swam, intruders or no intruders. I was going to make it to my wife.

I was going to convince her I loved her.

Soon, I stood in front of all these city lights. I had to be in Florida, or Mexico or maybe even Annapolis. I had swam so hard I lost sight of where I was. Then I, a man, bolted to the nearest Porta John, hurried inside and slammed the door. Staying until the sun came up was torture. I didn’t sleep—someone would break down the door. Every time my eyes closed, I jerked awake. My head slumped, but I straightened it. Someone knocked.

I went to the bathroom, actually having to relieve myself. The person said someone was using it. Footsteps told me she or he left. I shapeshifted into a cat, quietly exiting it. Pretending I was a stray, I attracted many strangers. Some even reached down to pet me. Getting a scratch here and a rub there, I purred and even meowed. Sometimes, a child begged to pet me, but the horrified parent justified their no’s with the fact that I had rabies or some wicked disease. I shook my head.

Puh-lease! I don’t own such a disease. Even if I did, I wouldn’t attack, unless the kid called me ugly or something like that.

I trotted until I saw a sign saying Palm Beach Street. The word Florida passed my mind. Yes, maybe this was it. As I strolled down such a street, I smiled a little. However, I jumped onto a bench. I didn’t want to cry, but I found it hard not to.

Tears poured down my cheeks. I didn’t understand. What did I do wrong? Why didn’t my wife want me? Thoughts flooded my mind: she enjoyed her time with her friends, fly-fishing and fishing and ice-skating, even. But I also had darker ones—what if she were eating a picnic, and one of the friends asked whether she were married, and she said yes but she didn’t love me, and she didn’t want others to know our troubled marriage, and…?

I trotted, then ran. I so wanted to be a person. I was not meant to be a four-legged tom dashing through an American city. When I saw a sign that said Shirts N’ Stuff, I was so relieved I could cry. Actually, I teared up as I snuck in there, pulled a shirt and pants and underwear off some racks, making off with them into a dressing room. Once changed, I came out as if nothing had happened. I wish I had some money. I walked up to the man behind the counter.

“Son, you’re paying for those, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Wow, an accent! Where you from?”

“Ireland.”

He stared at me like I had turned into something unrecognizable. Then he said, “Um…you have any money?” He must’ve seen my empty pockets.

My cheeks burned. “No, sir. I don’t…”

Suddenly, someone slapped down a fifty-dollar bill. “On me, sir. Please—” Putting a hand on my shoulder like I was a homeless person, she pitied me. I jerked away, and then noticed she sounded familiar. Wasn’t she that girl who tried getting into the Porta John last night? Or this morning. Whatever. Anyway, I couldn’t be more grateful. Blinking back tears of relief, I nodded, shaking her hand.

“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you so much!”

The employee was wearing an embarrassed smile, and said he had other customers. When I said goodbye to the employee (who mentioned I still had price tags dangling from the shirt and pants), I asked for some scissors, walked quickly to a dressing room and freed my clothing from them. I returned the scissors and made off, some customers muttering about my weirdness.

They have no idea!

I jammed my hands in my pockets, slowly forgetting about my wife. It wasn’t like she was looking for me. It’s not like she was trying her hardest to locate me, call in for missing husbands or asking locals whether they had seen me. I morphed into a sparrow, flying home.

Did I stop? For worms, yes.

Did I turn into a person? No.

My wife wasn’t there. I decided she had left me. Started over with someone else. I became a person, got dressed and sat at the kitchen counter, and then slammed down my mug. I grabbed the phone, dialing her number. She didn’t pick up. I went over to the local coffee shop. Then I went home, relieved I didn’t have anyone chasing me. Then I had a thought.

Was my wife chasing me? Was she waiting for me to come home?

I went on the back porch, and stood there, the wind in my hair.

“Had a good fishing trip!” She came out to meet me. I embraced her, and then we sat outside, me getting my mug. Sitting on the porch couch, we talked. She asked what I did while she was gone.

I shook my head, laughing. “Honey, it’s a long story!”

As I sipped coffee, my wife went into the house, returning with something in a cooler. She opened it, and dead fish stared back at me. “That’s what you caught?”

“You want some for dinner tonight? We can grill it right here on the porch!”

“Sure!”

As we talked, I couldn’t help wondering whether that person who gave me a fifty-dollar bill was an angel. Or was she…my wife in disguise? Could she become other people as I could become animals?

That night, I asked her. She stared at me like I spoke a foreign tongue. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but…first you’re writing love letters to me. And then you’re talking weirdly about me becoming another person?”

I morphed into a dog, but before she could alert those dumb officers, I morphed back, thinking of pajamas. Clothed, I made sure the bedroom door was shut, and the curtains were drawn. They were. We were alone. When I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, she wrapped her arms around my waist. I hurried through my brushing, spit out the toothpaste and gargled some Listerine. I wiped my mouth, and then turned around, returning the favor.

She loved me, I admitted.

We kissed passionately, and then retired to bed. While she slept, I put one arm under my pillow, and the other around her. She woke up. Taking my hand, she told me to get on the other side of her. I did. “I love you, dear!”

Taking my head in her hands, we made out, undressing each other. We petted until the wee morning hours. Running my hands up and down her skin sent electric shivers up and down my spine. She said she hadn’t enjoyed such love-making since our wedding night. I claimed that night foreshadowed tonight. We moved to the bathtub, the water running over us as we fondled, she gasping, and me panting. Sex never felt so good. After shutting off the water, we dried each other--slowly. Retreating to bed, we continued masturbating until we fell asleep, my arms tightly wrapped around her deliciously skinny waist.

After we awoke, I told her of my shape-shifting adventures. She seemed intrigued. “Write about it.” She got out of bed, wrapping her delectably voluptuous body in a very transparent robe. I lusted after her, hating that she moved towards the closet. I told her to get back in bed.

“I have to meet someone at the coffee shop for work.”

I complained it was Saturday.

“Still.”

It seemed to drag on. Bored, I trotted away. I noticed the coffee lady staring at me. I froze, too. Was I a dog?

One day, we split up. I didn’t want to sit at coffee shops on Saturday mornings with my workaholic wife. I wanted fun. That night, we fought. She stormed out into the thunderstorm, tears streaming down her cheeks. I strived to reconcile with her. She didn’t want me. So I found myself at the law court, signing divorce papers, abhorring every second.

She loved the idea that I returned. Thought I loved her auburn hair.

I was no trickster. I fought to keep our marriage. After driving home, I was met with a cold tone. “You always—”

“You’re just in love with the idea of me! Whatever that means.”

Soon, trees turned orange, red and yellow and then lost their leaves completely. I felt—no, I knew—I needed to change. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. I trotted the streets as a cat. On Halloween, I was a black cat in a very cold, very dark world.

Maybe I’ll live among the strays in Florida.

We returned to the law court, the judge asking whether we were going to split. I disagreed.

At home, she became a dog, too. I backed off when she had to go to the coffee shop. She didn’t stay all morning, like she said she would. Soon, she went with just me, purposely leaving her computer, paperwork and briefcase behind. Because, she said, work wasn’t her husband. I was.

We moved to Florida, black cats in a warm but dark world.

Busy wasn’t divorcing us anymore. We were strays, teaching those strays to catch those evil rats and mice scaring passersby. The evil rats and mice made us chase them into the sewers, where a new adventure began.

And we were ready.