an unrehearsed universe

Another One Opens

Exhaustion drapes itself across her features, pinching her nose and pursing her thin lips into non-existence.  “I’m not perfect,” she says. 

Who asked for perfection?  What she means is ‘I’m not faithful,’ equating fidelity with perfection.  She does it in such a way that I lose for speaking.  It is, I have decided, the last time we will have this fight.

I should say next, “I forgive you.”  Maybe the old standby, “I understand how hard this is for you.”

That has always been my role.  My hesitant offering of "When you do (insert the blank – or the name) it hurts me," is nearly always trumped by the abused puppy expression she dons.  I retreat from my wounds, chastised.  Her mechanisms for deflecting responsibility are highly evolved.  It is I who transgress in mentioning her transgressions; I who offend by pointing out her offenses.  Thus I constantly misplace the thread of my grievances.  Often our arguments end with me prostrate before her, the lowliest penitent before a beneficent sovereign.  She forgives me and I pretend to forget.

Not today.  Stubbornly mute, I convey with my body – arms wrapped around myself defensively, the penetrating glare – the long walk off the short pier I want her to take.  Her exhaustion is replaced by confusion the moment my resolution sinks in. 

“I’m not asking it of you,” I say.  “I’m telling you to stop.  And to leave.” 

Her brows furrow with worry.  I resist the impulse to apologize for causing her consternation – and wrinkles.  Since the surgeon is one of her many admirers I’m fairly certain she got a discount.  Who knows, looking her age might inspire a new-found maturity.  Or not.  Either way, that's no longer my concern.

“Don’t you mean ‘or leave’?” 

“I didn’t realize I still stuttered.” 

For once, I am calm.  She is the one in the tears.  The transfer of power is monstrously joyful: I finally understand the appeal of the emotional knots she’s twisted me into.  I'm human enough to enjoy finally coming out on top.  Yet as a permanent state of being  – as a method of treating a lover – who could live this way?  By the anger creeping up the folds of neck flesh even surgery couldn’t tighten, I know one answer is her.  But I find it leaves a lot to be desired.

My god, it has been years.  Years of feeling not only rejected but also unworthy. Years of letting her demolish my sense of self with a parade of younger – dumber – boys and girls.  'Basta ya,' as my mother would say.  What matters is crossing the finish line, however slowly.

Her eyes widen impossibly further, the skin where her crow's feet used to be stretched so tightly I fear her face will break.  She sees the suitcase I have packed for her resting against the sofa.  This is no empty bluff.  And so now the tears flow in earnest.  In her way, she might have loved me.

Like a monster, I take violent pleasure in her dethroning.  Tomorrow I will summon my better angels, figure out how to explain to our children, our friends and family, why and what I have done.  Not today.

Today the sound of the slamming front door is beautiful.  Today the shoe is on the other foot, and it fits mighty fine.