Growing Empty

I recall it fondly, her supple lips greeting me each morning. Usually, a mauve lipstick would leave a faint trace on me, marking me to her. I preferred a lazy Saturday, where we both had nothing to do and I received her naturally peachy-pink smile.

First, her hands would grip me and I would jolt down, followed by a feeling of immense heat and passion filling me up to my brim. Hot wet passion. A daily ritual that we both looked forward to, her allowing me to do my job, and me hers. Her fingers fit perfectly against my body, creeping up my arm until she found the perfect fit. Sometimes, it felt like I was floating, leaving my entire presence to her whim.

Funny enough, my favorite part was the smell. Scents of the mountains and lush, green rainforests. I could nearly hear the macaques rustling in the background, trying to get a peek of the source. Dark, musty notes of cocoa wafted through my entire body, allowing me to break out of a night of black. On those especially dark, blustery mornings in mid-winter I would stay as still as I could and let the smells take me away to their warm origin.

We created a bond, from the first time we met. Her friend brought me to her Christmas party in 2012, I was wearing my signature off-white with red trim. We shared a powerful chemistry from the first touch. She asked if I was French and giggled. I could hear her talking about me later on in the night, glancing my direction from time to time. I played it cool, as you do when you’ve been on the shelf for too long but know your worth. I knew this would be it. It didn’t take long to be back at her place, turning into her “usual”, and doing my best to stay consistent and charming. Waking up the morning after to the sounds of her sizzling bacon and rays of natural light through the giant fiddle leaf fern launched the best stage of my life, and made me feel more at home than ever.

She took great pleasure in keeping me pristine, and wouldn’t scoff at licking her thumb and wiping off some dirt or a stain from me. She did her best to keep me to herself, but I admit there were times her friends, and even once her sister, got a good hold of me and tempted me with their embrace, their touch, and their own unique ways of pleasure, but I held firm like a stoic, knowing this was a ritual that would pass and turn me out on the other side better than I was before. I knew those moments didn’t harm anything between us, but they were difficult to endure.

I recall those years fondly. Now, I sit, watching her new thing. Her new reliable. We’re rarely in the same room, but when we are I perk up and do my best to grab her attention - not in a pathetic way, but in a “hey, remember us…remember when?” I often wonder if it was me who failed. My off-white is now closer to a tan with years in the near-sun, and sure I have some droops. My body is still rigid as ever, fired in the kiln of Hell’s Kitchen and driven to her home by a friend. Sure with age I have some wear and tear, but don’t we all?

I can still feel the slight break in my arm, from that night clad in all green, where we had a bit too much Bailey’s. She wasn’t used to her new engagement ring, and coming through the door it made me fall to the ground with a sharp pain. I thought it looked amazing, a nice carat gleaming oval in the Westward evening light, surrounded by friends and a few strangers. She grabbed me but her finger slipped, and now I wear that mark forever. I don’t mind it, but I sometimes wonder if she looks down on me for it.

She got used to that ring, and the next that followed, and our mornings became more chaotic. Becoming a family brings unexpected thrills, and unforeseen challenges. The weekends got less-lazy and packed with more events. She started to run, and got really into pilates. There was a horrible three month kick in the summer of 2016 that she ditched coffee flat-out for herbal teas, but it didn’t stick. I thank God, because I am addicted to the ways and means of the coffee bean, and it was tough being around her without it.

A few short years after the wedding we welcomed our first kid. A moment that is meant to be the best of your life, and one that I was really looking forward to. I loved that kid, and still do. A boy. A rambunctious, little heathen at times, but a really good kid. The first months were tough - a new family growing every day, learning about each other and who’s boundaries end where. I remained a huge part of her days, but knew my job was to stay in the shadows, on call. I wasn’t a main character now. Some beautiful moments appeared. New natural miracles occurred every day, and I recall that I accepted our time together graciously.

When he started walking, my days got longer. Her lips grew firm, and through the first year I noticed the toll her long nights took. When I felt them, the love seemed further away, replaced by a necessary morning routine, more going through the motions than a ritual of desire. Sometimes she forgot about me altogether after the few minutes each morning we had together. Her focus totally on him - which I totally get, but it still took a toll. Not long after, her mornings started kneeling at the toilet, and I had to catch myself from feeling depressed, imagining my role becoming even less. As her belly grew, my role diminished even more. Her doctor advised her that intimate time with me should be limited for her, and the baby’s, health. I took this in stride, and readied myself for a long, lonely winter - one that years back would be spent in her arms, being the main source of comfort.

The second boy was born in April to much fanfare. The first picture of our family was from the kitchen, and I was partially covered by a giant blue balloon. In the coming days and weeks, boxes arrived at the front door, filled with swaddles, generic white T shirts, and a from her old friend, a brand-new coffee mug. One of those gargantuan, novelty jobs made with enough stainless steel to build a fighter jet. It even had a straw built right into the top, with a white silicon plastic swivel lid to prevent spills. It was lavender - a color she never wore - and had subtle glittering throughout the bottom half. As soon as she opened it she squealed and looked at her husband and asked “did you tell her this is what I wanted? It’s perfect!” and gave him a giant kiss.

I can’t be too surprised, I had a good run. I didn’t end up in some hipster coffee shop, where a barista would try and fail incessantly to decorate me with the still image of a blackbird floating on cream. I had a great life. I loved our mornings together. Her leaving me in my special place at the front of the counter, next to the espresso machine. Cleaning me as soon as I was empty, ensuring each drop of coffee, milk, and froth was wiped and dried so I didn’t streak. These are memories I can always smile upon, and no one can take them from me.

The boys are 2 and 4. Now I sit in the basement, next to the kids art table, holding - at the moment - 6 small paintbrushes, stained with a mix of firetruck red and ocean blue. I live for the days they desire to create something beautiful.