He sat there with her. They were watching a movie, although his mind was to say the least, on her. But then his mind never was on anything else but her . . . the other her. But he feigned interest in the movie and her reactions. It wasn't as if he didn't care at all, just less than the angel that was on his mind at the moment. The angel with lips, that made it hard to be faithful.
The sound of the phone ringing got him up from the couch. She looked at him strangely, as if he was hearing things. He looked at the number, and took the phone upstairs. He talked, he cried and he smiled. It was so good to hear the sounds from the lips of an angel.
He held the picture in his hand, as he talked to her. Remembering all the good times. Him, her, the boys . . . The memories meant so much to him. He grasped the picture frame, tightly, as if the memories might escape his memory if he didn't hold on to it. As if the gold band around his finger, still, meant nothing. As if the lady waiting in the room close to him, didn't ignore that fact. That he could never move on. That he couldn't be faithful.
The lips of an angel.
He sat there on the floor, clutching the picture of them. So happy together. The four of them. No matter how long ago it was, he still tried to be so faithful to her. And here he had another woman in her house. In her bed. Why was he so weak? Why couldn't he stay faithful? Was it the lips of another angel? Is that possible? Two angels? He wanted to be faithful to her. Never forget her. His friend, lover, sister, mother/wife. Never forget her.
He heard her coming up the stairs. He sat there clutching the picture. The moisture of his falling tears, soiled the glass of the picture frame, falling on her face. Right where her tears would be, if she found another woman in her house. But despite his weakness he continued to talk to her on the phone, trying to explain himself. Trying to make excuses for his weaknesses and his inadequacies. Hoping against hope that she would understand what he was trying to say. That she might understand what he was saying. But when he would touch that gold band on his finger, he realized that nothing could explain his actions. And that made him weep.
She cautiously entered the room. She saw him sitting there on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. She asked him if there was something wrong. He made an excuse and got up from the floor. He walked towards the doorway, the phone hanging in his hand.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I can love you."
He handed her the phone, and walked down the stairs. She brought the phone to her ear and listened for the other end.
All she got was a busy signal . . .
She looked down at the picture that he had been holding. A picture of him with another woman and two young boys with them. And then she remembered the gold band that was still on his finger. The lips of an angel . . .