I got home tonight, happy to find my husband here. I wasn't sure if he'd be at my house or not, but I thought he might. I sped all the way home, like I used to, excited to be close to him.
I saw him peek out the window, and then he got up and left, quickly. His movements made my heart skip a beat. I knew it couldn't be good. I came inside the house, and he was in the bathroom. He'd turned the exhaust fan on. It smelled like pot in the room.
I asked him if he'd been smoking. He said, "No." He asked me to come closer to him. I did. I smelled smoke on his breath. I asked him again if he'd been smoking, and he said, "No." I told him he smelled like smoke, and it smelled like smoke in my house. He then said that he'd smoked some pot a few hours earlier, but that he'd gone outside to do it. I told him it was probably best for him to leave, and he freaked out briefly, and then regained his composure.
As he was leaving, he pulled a bowl out of the drawer where he used to keep his underwear. "You probably smelled this," he explained.
"I don't know why I thought this was possible," he said.
I don't know why I thought it was possible, either.
He has a place he can go if he wants to be high. He can do that at his parents' house as much as he wants. I don't want drugs in my life, and I don't want the chaos that comes with him using around me.
I am sad that the escape latch I'd imagined isn't actually there. It's another door into the same room.