Peace, at Last (Maybe)

The silence was deafening. Not the comfortable, companionable silence of two people who’ve shared a lifetime of knowing glances and unspoken thoughts, but the stark, echoing quiet of a man adrift in a sea of his own making. I sat on the edge of my bed, the one that used to be *our* bed, the one that Ekwene and I had furnished with dreams and slightly mismatched décor from discount stores, and I just… sat. The dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight that dared to peek through the drawn curtains, each one a tiny, shimmering testament to the chaos I’d orchestrated.

Peace. I’d craved it like a desert traveler craves water. I’d thought, in my infinite, misguided wisdom, that two wives would somehow dilute the nagging, spread the complaints thin, like butter on an over-toasted slice of bread. Instead, I’d created a tidal wave. A tidal wave that had, thankfully, receded, leaving behind a desolate, yet strangely tranquil, shoreline.

The dust motes. They reminded me of the fallout. The sheer, unadulterated fury of Ekwene, her eyes blazing like twin supernovae. The bewildered, wounded disbelief of Yolande, her sweet face contorted into an expression I’d never thought possible. And me, caught in the crossfire, a hapless soldier who’d accidentally declared war on himself.