The things that gnaw at you

Bought a ticket for a runaway train,
like a madman laughin' at the rain,
little out of touch, little insane,
just easier than dealing with the pain.
                ~ Soul Asylum, Runaway Train

 

I sit. 

I wait. 

I breathe. 

I lie.  

I hate.  

I love.

All for you.

I wait.  The soft green cushion of the easy chair that we bought together a month ago gives way to short fingers and hard pressure.  I can’t bring myself to turn on the lamp, to let the yellow light illuminate the easy chair, the sofa, the TV, me, or the fact that you aren’t here.

Is it wrong to rehearse the words?  To roll them around my tongue and let them fill the hollows of my cheeks as I wet the syllables down?  Is it wrong to say the speeches to the lamp or the headlights of the passing cars, which bring only temporary relief to the harsh darkness of full midnight?

I called your cell phone this morning, let it ring until I knew you’d heard.  My finger hovered over the “End” button but you picked up the phone and breathed, waiting for me to speak first.  “Will I get to see you tonight?”

“You should.  I’ll be home late, though.” 

I ran long fingernails painted blue and chipped over the kitchen table.  My Grandpa’s old table, the one that my brothers and I would sit at eating Fruit Loops with fruit juice, because Grandpa had run out of milk.

“When will you get home, then?”  My voice was small and inconsequential.  You could easily ignore it and I wouldn’t be able to call you on it.   But you wouldn’t because you know I’d only repeat myself.

“Nine o’clock . . . no eleven o’clock.  Don’t wait up for me.”

“You know I will.”  I twisted the silver Claddaugh on my finger.  You gave it to me last Valentine’s Day, to make up for not being able to come home.  It came in a green box with gold Celtic designs swimming over the edges; inside the ring was nestled in green velvet.  Even though you had promised it to me months before, when I saw it I wanted to cry because you aren’t supposed to send rings in the mail.  I wear it all the time anyway.

You sighed softly, really just a letting out of your breath, but I know you, you were tired.

“Can we maybe meet for lunch?” It’s that weak voice again I hate that voice, but I don’t know how to control it.

“Can’t.  If I go to lunch with you my boss will chew me out, and I really don’t want to deal with him today.”

“It’s Saturday, you shouldn’t even be at work and I haven’t seen you for a week…You just got back last night.  I wanna see you.”  If I could bottle that voice I would throw it in the ocean. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.  I’ll see you tonight –I’m sure you’ll be up.”

“Try not to be too late?”

“Yeah, bye.”  The phone went dead and then the dial tone filled my ears.  I felt cheated because I didn’t get to say ‘good-bye’ back.  I rested the phone in its cradle.  It beeped at me, and then silence reigned.  When we went on our first date I told you at dinner that I hated to be alone, not sure even then why I said it.  I whispered it into your ear, it was a secret. I luxuriated in the feel of your soft blonde hair tickling my cheek, as I leaned over, around the tiny candle that you claimed gave ambiance.  You just smiled and didn’t say anything, shook your head as you slid one large hand over my small one resting on the table. 

I told you again later, my lips bruised by your kisses and my hair weaved into spider webs by your hands.   I had to make you understand and you pulled away to look at me, your deep lapis eyes with the soft blue circles star bursting around the pupils made me feel as if I had plunged into a churning river.   Your full lips, bruised for the same reason as mine, smiled, flashed the white half moon of teeth in the pale glow of my porch light. You leaned into me, your body sculpting itself to mine, and placed your cool lips against my forehead and soothed the heat that had risen in my cheeks.  You promised I’d never be alone, that it would never be a problem, you made the promise in that one kiss and I believed you.

In the mornings I wake as you slip into your clothes, prepackage yourself for a day at work. My eyes, half-lidded with sleep, watch as you move through the room.  My green eyes soak all of you in.  They memorize the muscles that move under your soft apricot skin as you pull your t-shirt over your stomach, blocking my view of your lean frame.  They flit away when you turn to look at me, and your slick tenor voice whispers that you aren’t that interesting.

But you are.

When the front door clicks softly behind you, my body stretches to your side of the bed, tries to fill in the hollow that your body left behind but fails.   The warmth is already fading.

Later I stretch, and blink the sleep from my eyes as I move slowly out of our bed feeling the tight pull of muscles that had been ill-used as I bent in angles around you, fitting my body to yours.  I pad through our house, my bare feet slapping on the tiles of the kitchen and running my toes through the soft brown carpet of the living room. I explore each room like a moth beating her wings against the glass of a jar, paying attention to everything but the obvious.

My eyes itch, like something crawled under the membranes, gritty sand works its way inside my lids, makes the white red.    They burn and I wallow in the discomfort; my fingers twitch to itch them, but I won’t.  I’ll wait until you get home to let you kiss my closed eyes, sooth the burn, bleach away the redness.  I knew you’d be late, that’s probably why I can sit here counting my breaths and blinking my red gritty eyes in the dark without having “a moment.”

Look at me.  Look at what I can do.  Watch the clock, tap out an unheard rhythm, and brush a hair out of my eyes where tears are forming.  I can handle this.  I really can. I have to because I’ve promised my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, my best friend, myenemymypriestmyGodmyBuddhamy- Allahmyholysavior-Amen.  But I haven’t promised you; you never asked me to.  I never had to tell you I can handle this because you won’t whine or pout.  I need you more than you need me.  I need more than you are willing to give, so it doesn’t matter if I can handle this.

I don’t have to wait for you; I can fold myself into our cold bed, curl into a fetal position, and try to generate enough heat to feel my toes.  You always wonder at how cold my feet get, how they, along with my hands, are so icy when the rest of me is so warm.  We even went as far as to discuss my circulation once; how we drew it out to an hour long conversation I have no idea.  You used to cup my hands in yours and blow warm tufts of air onto the blocks of ice at the tips of my fingers, rub them together in an attempt to generate warmth. Then you would press your satin lips on my skin in a kiss that warmed them better than the blowing and rubbing combined.  My feet usually had to fend for themselves, though.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Count to ten, count fingers, toes, eyes, lips, noses, ears, sins, confessions, lies, fibs, exaggerations.  Count them until they don’t seem real, until they don’t matter, until they don’t hurt.  They dig themselves under my skin like a parasite, infect me, make the things I hate about myself swell and fester until they pop, sending shards of whatever is left to spew out, and cover whatever is in its path. 

Usually you.

The air is thick, my eyes are weak, but my heart is strong.  I can wait for you as long as you need me to.  Sitting in this chair, outlined by the light that passing cars throw across our windows, I can wait for you all night, if I need to.  I just can’t promise my eyes will be open.

I worked for a few hours, my fingers making a low symphony on the keyboard, playing words in my head out into the otherwise empty air.  Even then I see you out of the corner of my eye, a pale ghost sitting on the sofa or reaching across the kitchen counter.  It’s then that I think, maybe I should find a job out in the real world. I like my job, it’s what I always wanted to be and I bring in more money than you.  But what would you do if you came home and I wasn’t here? 

Later I turned on some music and danced, it’s hard when you don’t have a partner.  It’s harder when you haven’t been able to go out and practice for three months.  Remember when I won the swing dance competion?   Remember how angry you got because I had to dance with another man to do it?  You’ve never actually seen me dance, but you seemed so happy when I stopped that I ignored the feeling at the bottom of my stomach.

For lunch I ate half a jar of marshmallow fluff because I wanted to.  My eyes consumed what my brain could not, which was every talk show my fingers could channel.  I discovered that though my parents yelled at me, and threatened me with boarding school, I didn’t need to go to boot camp.   Sally Jesse needs to stop wearing red glasses, in my opinion.  Best of all, to my knowledge, I was related to no one on those shows, which was nice, since they made me want to eat the rest of the fluff, just to forget about them.

Sometimes you realize that no matter how many times you want to forget something, you know you’ll remember it forever.  Like today.

I’ve been in this house alone for close to sixteen hours.

Secrets.   They blow and turn, twist around themselves like ribbons on a breeze, change before they reach your ears, shift into truths or lies.  I want to whisper to you, feel my lips brush the edge of your earlobe gently.  I don’t know what to say, but I feel like when you finally get home, I should say something.   Something intelligent and witty and betraying nothing of the loneliness or the need.  

Why aren’t you home yet?   Why do you have to go to work, where everyone thinks they own you?   Why are you there instead of here?   Why does it have to matter so much to me?   When did I start talking to myself?  Sometimes I think I’m going insane with the loneliness, that my mind ran away without leaving me a note, or even a forwarding address.

When you come home will you tell me you missed me?  Will you kiss me hard enough to bruise, or show me that in the dark I’m still beautiful?  Will your five o’clock shadow rub my chin raw as we move together?  Maybe you will weave my hair into the spider webs as you pull me close to you.   I won’t even mind the tangles, even though it will take me half an hour in the morning to brush them out and I might have to yell at you, forgetting that I said I wouldn’t mind.

Some nights when you come home, if you and I are quiet we can hear the crackle of the layers being stripped off, being burned away with clumsy fingers.  The heat of skin brushing over the secrets, the darkness hidden in the depths.   The sweep of wet lips tickle the memories on the tips of our tongues of other nights spent together.

I can’t sit down any more, I can’t be still or I’ll fall asleep; I can’t fall asleep.  I have to be awake when you get home. I walk across the room and fiddle with a picture of us that sits on the fireplace.  We crouched down leaning on each other and a pastel blue wall as your mother told us to smile while she took the picture.  We did our best to look happy, I had just come back from court, to take care of a speeding ticket, and I wasn’t in the mood to listen to your mother prattle on about how I should find a new boyfriend that was serious about me.

You had smiled and kissed my forehead, then my lips telling me not to mind her, because that was just the way she was.  Which was true.

I curl back up in the easy chair, and glare at the lamp and the TV.   I’m cold but I won’t use the afghan with the sun and moon woven together to create one ball of opposites.   I won’t use it because I deserve to be cold because . . . I don’t really know why but I’ll think of something later. 

“Hey, I didn’t know you were still awake . . .”

Your voice labors to make it through the sludge like air.   So I fell asleep, I’m sorry for that.   I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you came in the door.  I didn’t want your eyes to focus on the lamp or the sofa or have you wonder what was in the fridge before you thought of me.

I hear the shower as you heat the water before it reaches your skin.  I get up, unsteady, like I'm walking on pins and needles, whole eggshells, all of which could shatter with one wrong move, just like whatever it is I believe is still intact in our lives.

Our hearts, maybe?

I slip into our bed, my eyes close and it seems seconds later that the floorboards creak as you walk closer to the bed.   One step, another, pause.  Are you looking at me?   Are you wondering whether you should join me in bed or not? Another step, another pause.   Are you saying something and I just can’t hear you?

“Are you listening to me?” When you ask me this, I have to wonder what you would say if I said yes. Because that seems to be the answer you wouldn’t expect. “Do you even know what you want from me?”

Yes.

“I wish you would talk to me.”

 So do I.

“Why do we only have half a jar of Marshmallow Fluff? We just got it a week ago.”

Because I ate it, why do you think?

“Can’t you say something?”

I’m trying, but no words are coming out.

“Please, talk to me?”  You kneel down next to the bed; and your knee gives a small pop. I wince in sympathy; my eyes close for a second, to see you when I finally open them.   Your full lips press in a tight line, crinkle at the edges –you need chapstick.  Remind me to buy you some. Your eyebrows pull together to form a small tent, and push furrows up on your forehead.

            Your fingers curl around mine, and the nails dig into the bed of my palm, like a cat flexing his claws on the brand new couch, innocent and unassuming. But you aren't trying to draw blood. If anything, I think you are trying to anchor me, keep me from floating away from you, and us. "I miss you . . . "

The words leave your mouth and then, all of a sudden, your fingers twirl my hair, create knots out of the strands, and I am sure you could spin gold out of them. You slide under the covers, infect my veins as you kiss my eyelids, and they aren’t burning anymore.  Your voice tells me words I was afraid you'd never say.  Your heart beats against mine, because I am pressed against you so tight I'm almost afraid you won't be able to breathe. Almost.

I'm still awake when you fall away for the night, your body going limp one muscle at a time, like you are reluctant to give up consciousness. My fingers convulse around yours as my eyes slowly begin to close, and my heart stills itself. Part of me never wants to let go, because you are mine now.  I've reclaimed you from the life you lead without me, surrounded by things and people that I could never, ever be. Even if I wished on a thousand shooting stars, or blew out five hundred birthday candles, I know that every day you walk out of that door, I am no longer yours, just as you are no longer mine.

But right now, I am only what I am every time you look at me. Someone who is reduced to the barest point of existence, because you can see past every single lie that I tell, every exaggeration that I speak of, and every tantrum I throw in a desperate attempt to try and make you understand. And right now, I let myself fall asleep, fall away from you and everything you do that makes me mad with anger and sadness. Everything you do that makes me love you.

Someone is whispering, because a hint of a breeze climbs through our windows, wraps us in it, and for a moment I shiver. Not because it carries that morning chill, but because I can feel you stir, disturbing the pocket of warmth we've created between us.

When you get up, for the morning, I sink into your place, and bury my nose into your scent, your warmth, trying to ignore the fact that I use a replica when the original is just across the room, pulling on his jeans.

I try to ignore the fact that you look at me, judge what I haven't said for what it doesn't mean, yet. I try to ignore the way you sigh, as if you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. I try to ignore you, but obviously it doesn’t work, now does it?

"Don't hate me for doing this."

I could never hate you, and you know that.  How are you supposed to hate someone you love?

"You're only making it harder."

Do you realize I haven't talked in almost ten hours?

"Dammit, why won't you talk to me?"

So you did notice.

For a moment there is only silence. And I don't know if it's because you've stopped talking or if it's because I've stopped listening.   My eyes burn again, and I can't feel my fingers.  "I need you to stay."

"What?"

"I . . . need . . . you . . . to . . . stay. With me. Now." You look at me for a moment, try to understand why I've decided to speak now. I can see your mind try to figure me out, and I want to tell you to stop, because it won't work, it never has.

"Why didn't you tell me."

"Because I didn't think you'd believe me." I close heavy eyelids, because I'm telling the truth.

"You didn't think I'd believe you—“ 

"I'm sorry."  Our voices collide. And I am.

“I want you to stay.”

You look at me; your eyes like the sea right after a storm are filled with an emotion I can’t place.  Maybe it’s guilt, maybe you’ve decided you love me, or maybe you’re just trying to figure me out.  You’re voice is a whisper that twists on the breeze like a satin ribbon.