text: It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon. I rummage through the selection of tea that we keep on the windowsill over the kitchen counter, stacked on top of one another, with no label facing the same direction and no one brand alike. Boxes, jars, and tubes all jangled on top of one another. The choices were unique in their own ways: there was chamomile, one of her favorites but perhaps too pedestrian; an orange and cranberry blend I had picked up at a used bookstore; lavender and vanilla crème that was more luxuriant than pleasant but she might be in that mood this evening; apple spice of which she had tried one bag and declared it gross; traditional English breakfast, but that was too caffeinated for an evening tea; and lastly there was peppermint, but the weather was turning chilly outside, so that may not fit the temperament of the evening. This is surely hell. I don’t want to rush to judgement about the tea selection. The kettle will take a long time to get to temperature and the tea situation is finicky enough as is and deserves some thought. One false move here and the entire evening could be ruined, she could feel unloved, unseen, and misunderstood by the man who is supposed to love, see, and understand her. I stand over the sink and glance at each tea individually and simulate her response to each cup. This was always my favorite time of the evening, the time just before she came home. In the small gap that existed between the realization that she would be home soon and her arrival I felt light, effervescent even. I felt the way that I imagine dogs do when they hear the car door shut in the driveway but before they have seen the human walk through the door. There is this moment of tension, a brilliant anticipation like a childhood Christmas, where you realize that bliss is just a few moments away. Of course, when the bliss comes it may not have all the shimmer and gaiety that you imagined, but I’m not so sure that matters but so much. If the anticipation and buildup beforehand gives you that glee that makes the moment ahead seem perfect and then you have the memory of it that lingers and fits nicely into a pocket that you can make nostalgic the moment it’s over, does that brief moment where it’s out of focus matter nearly as much as what’s around it? But she’ll be back soon, all the same. I can already just see her car kicking a cloud of dirt up behind her as she drives down the long gravel road. I’ll have my forehead pressed against the window by my chair in the living room, my breath will be fogging up the glass, the oils from my skin will be leaving their greasy traces on the pane itself. I’ll trick myself, I always do. I’ll see a neighbor and begin to get excited, but will have to come back to earth when I realize it’s not her. Or, I’ll convince myself that the rustling of the trees on the winding driveway is actually me seeing her car move down the road. I’ll convince myself of it for a few moments, but I know, deep down, that I’m lying to myself. This tea situation, though, is pestering me. I want the tea to be perfect. I think I’ve timed the kettle just right so that just as she comes around the bend in the road and I can first see her car that its whistle will sing out. If I’m too early with the timing of the kettle then it becomes a balancing act of keeping the water at the appropriate temperature and if I’m too late then either she has to wait longer when she gets in or I’m going to be serving lukewarm tea to her. Naturally, the question arises as to why not just start the kettle earlier since the tea has to steep and this is all about her getting tea, but it’s not just that. It’s about setting the atmosphere and she loves to steep. She bobs the bag up and down with a finger dipping in and out of the hot water and she barely registers a twinge. Her mind begins to unpack itself in those moments, the mental decompression process occurs and by the time the tea has steeped, and her finger has perhaps taken on a slightly pinkish hue, her mental stretching is complete and she is ready to embrace the evening. But what choice of tea I make matters. This is surely hell. Flipping through the tea selection a few more times I finally make a choice: chamomile. She loves chamomile and perhaps it will be just the thing to lull her off after a day at the office. I open the box and pull out the perfect bag. I hold it to my nose and breathe in and the spices and leaves smell absolutely amazing. I just know that she’ll love it I feel the twinges of excitement knotting in my stomach. They rise and fall, die and are reborn, over and over again. Just as I think that I may have gotten adjusted to the excitement a brand new wave strikes me all over again and I flutter off of my toes, gliding around with hope that tonight will be perfect. I’ve cleaned the kitchen and folded the laundry; I’ve picked up her favorite ice cream, which I will surprise her with after she’s finished her tea; and I’ve even given the dog a bath and put an adorable new collar on her. She’s our pride and joy, a stray that picked us above anyone else. She just arrived one day and planted her flag in our hearts. We love to take turns holding her, letting her lick our faces, rubbing her behind the ears and watching her eyes roll back as she squints from how nice the petting feels. I can’t hear her now so she must be sleeping. She’ll be snuggled up on the sofa, in a perfect little circle or perhaps she’ll be stretched out with a paw gently covering her eyes. The dog will be almost as excited as I will be when she gets home. The dog will jump from the couch and run around the house and maybe even jump on her. With the tea, that might not be a good idea. Maybe I should get the dog up now so she isn’t but so excited, get the dog primed to see her since it will only be another minute or two at most. “Baby!” I say, my voice bright and happy. I know that I’m supposed to hear the jangle of the new collar and the tapping of her nails on the floor, but I don’t. “Baby, come here, girl!” I say, louder this time. Still, nothing comes in response to me. “Baby!” I say, a little bass in my voice and whistle. The whistle carries on and on, my lips quivering. I know she won’t come. Surely this is hell. The kettle whistles, high and loud over everything, screaming into my ears and filling the kitchen with noise, but I can’t move to stop it, to take it off the burner, because it’s coming back now, why the moment is so powerful, why it feels so good. This is hell. I can’t breathe. I want to vomit up the air that I’m choking on and my eyes and lungs burn so painfully that I wish I could just die. The waves of pain are powerful, they overwhelm me and almost buckle me to the floor. The realization is the true pain. One moment, one flash in time that is the most utterly painful, that is surely what hell makes us suffer. And that is where I am. My wife will ever come home to me and my dog will never answer because neither are there and that is the hell in which I find myself. Forever on the precipice of a happy moment, perhaps the happiest moment of my life, only to have it ripped away from me with this realization. She is not there, though she once was. She came home and I had her chamomile tea ready. She thanked me, kissed me on the cheek, and spilled just a little tea on herself when the dog jumped up to give her a kiss. We talked and petted the dog and loved the new collar. When I showed her the ice cream she cried just a little and said I was wonderful for thinking of her and that she was a very lucky woman. This was the happiest I had ever been. Eternal pain is easy because you can resign yourself at a certain point. If you know you’re going to lose a battle or die at a certain time, there is a dignity, and almost a kind of victory, in surrender. The torture lies in hope. The faintest glimmer of a chance being shown and then snatched away. This is my torture. I relive the knowledge that everything is lost and that I am alone and that it has been many eternities since I have seen my love and it will be infinitely more before I may rest. I feel the fresh cut of loss every day and then the realization of my time spent here sets in, and the further realization that I will feel this way again and again. I have relived her loss countless times with nothing to do to even dull the pain. The kettle has been singing out but it begins to dwindle. Maybe I’ve been standing in awe of everything for so long that the water’s burned down. I reach out and turn off the burner. “I miss you,” I say to no one, running my hands along the outside of the hot aluminum. It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon.