There was a misting, swirling trail of smoke that flittered about the chair my husband had been sitting in. He'd disappeared, of course, and his fork dangling in the air for a moment before clattering down to his plate, the pancakes forsaken. My five year old, who was sitting across from him, pouted and crossed her arms. If Daddy doesn't have to eat, then I don't have to she whined, and I sighed, giving her a look over the rim of my glasses reiterating that her father would, indeed, be eating his breakfast.
By Jesus the girl was five and she was already worried about her figure; I assumed it was because she watched too much television at her Grandmother's.
My husband reappeared moments later, blinking obsessively as if he'd just been sprayed by something, though I'm sure his large-frame glasses would've protected his blue eyes of such a thing. Blinking back what I assume was the aftershock of the time lapse, he waved the smoke from in front of his face and scratched at the beard that had started to flourish on his chin.
"Anything good," I queried, turning back to the cooking bacon on the stove. My daughter let out a squeal of joy as she picked up her fork and started to eat again, mimicking her father who had begun to do the same.
I sniffed the air, pausing my husband with my index finger. "Where on earth have you been this time. The after -smoke reminds me of a fire. I wish those smells wouldn't linger." I poked at the frying bacon again, watching it crack for a moment before turning off the flame.
"All I know is that some man named Harrison is no longer a fan of my skipping time so easily. Whatever that's supposed to mean. I'm fairly certain he was CIA, though, and no one from the CIA has yet to be a fan of me at all."
I pressed the palm of my hand to his right shoulder blade before filling a portion of his plate with a few fresh strips of bacon. "Well, I'm glad you're home, and scruffy," I mused, running my nails against his beard with a laugh.
"You do love my scruff - I think it was about three days this time, but you know I can never seem to remember those details."
I nodded my assent, silently curious as to where exactly he was. Of course he couldn't tell me, but even after fifteen years of this, I couldn't quench my eager mind to know the great unknown that my husband was privy to. I put two strips of bacon onto my daughters plate before sitting between the two at the table and cutting into my meal.
Calling it "time-jumping" doesn't seem the most true description of what my husband does. It's more of a relative awareness of his past lives that requires he skip through time like a huge book of the world, whenever crisis requires him to be there. Sort of. And even then, I'm not quite hitting the mark, because even I'm not too far in the know of what he does. And as much as his sudden disappearances worry me, often leaving me in a state of fear that my husband may not return, he does return, and only rarely hurt and bruised. The fear that he doesn't come back to me at all outweighs the fear of what he sees, so after the first two years of his leaving, coming, going, the like, I stopped asking questions that would only have me receive a Sorry, Honey, you know I can't answer. Watching him as he would sit beside me, eating his meals, smiling his smile, still being the man I grew to love and admire keeps me sated. Mostly.
I peered over the rim of my glasses as he licked at a few drips of syrup at the edge of his mouth. Leaning forward I took the corner of his lips between mine, smiling as I kissed away the remnants. "Don't forget to set your watch, dear," I chimed, leaning back into my seat. He jumped to do so, pressing a set of buttons on either side of the metal band.
"I don't know if I'd-"
"-remember my head half the time. I know."
The pancakes got soggy as I lost track of time watching him in the moments when time can't steal him. It's rare that I get that spare time, he usually clicks his watch before he leaves for work, but I can't help but feel selfish in the rare chances I get to spend time with him, on my own.
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