December 16, 2012
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long time gone….
Between the quiet times, D kept constant contact on my page. Watching. He couldn’t text. He couldn’t call. He wasn’t certain if I was playing a game, trying to get him to cave and proclaim his love for me.
Gag.
Terse emails appeared in my inbox. I answered them calmly but without emotion, “No. I’m not playing games. I want to be someone’s girlfriend all the time. I don’t want to be someone’s girlfriend for a few days a month. My period hangs around longer than you do. I know that you want a girlfriend only sometimes. I know that you’ve said that I’m not “the one”. Maybe I’m “the one” for someone else.” Angel me sighed as I sent the note, which he immediately opened.
“Are you sure you are doing the right thing?” she sounded tired. I turned and looked at her, surprised, “You think I’m playing games? I’m telling him that I want something that he’s not interested in being. It’s called breaking it off for good. I’m not giving him an ultimatum. I’m giving him the facts, reminding him that I know that he wants a more casual relationship.” She shook her head and pointed at the chat box that lit up on the screen. He growled that I was making him out to be a bad guy. He began listing my faults and shortcomings. Angel me looked over my shoulder, making small noises of disapproval. I read them aloud to her – my chronic tardiness, my jealousy, my shortcomings as a mother and wife to my ex husband, his suspicion that I was “stringing other guys along.” She rubbed her eyes, “He’s panicking. He’s afraid he’ll lose you. So pathetic….” I key in my response, calm as a koi pond, gently unraveling the sins, and reminding him gently that his words underscore the reason why I’m right to end it. Angel me hisses, “Games!” I stop and tap the screen, “If he feels that I have a poor character then I am completely right to break it off. He shouldn’t be with someone he finds so damaged.” My eyes fill with tears. Angel me studies my face for a moment then turns away, “End it then.”
But D isn’t ready for it to be over. He asks if we can talk. I tell him that we can, to fix the problems or to shake hands and part ways. I’m willing to do either. The text arrives within minutes, “I miss you. I want to see you. Please come over.”
Devil me regards me suspiciously, “Congratulations. You’ve just made him cave. Was that your intention?”
I slap a hand against my forehead, “I told him what I want. He isn’t going to want to work on problems. He just wants to talk or have sex. He doesn’t love me.”
Oddly though, when I do turn up on his doorstep, cautious, he pulls me inside and holds me close for long minutes. He kisses my neck, my forehead…tells me that he missed me. I remind myself that none of this means that he loves me. He’s on his best behavior. Attentive. Considerate.
He apologizes for being an asshole. He’ll proclaim love for parts of me. He tries harder, but he knows that I’m wary.
As he gets more comfortable he begins to sing the old tunes, vacations together, outings. I’ve heard these songs before. They’re nothing but smoke and mirrors. I become silent. He doesn’t notice. I come over for a visit during the week. He cooks steaks. I make vegetables. While we eat he teases me to draw me out – he’s been talking about trips and B&Bs, places I know in my heart we’ll never visit, so I’ve become silent. He asks when we started seeing each other. I can’t meet his gaze so I stare at my plate and mumble the month and year, waving it away with a hand, “…as if it matters…” He sits back and marvels at it, repeating it and converting it into months and years until my world has shrunken to the size of a dinner plate and I wish I could hide under it.
“That’s like what? Three and a half million years?” he laughs.
The card had read, “Ten thousand years” – scrawled in L’s handwriting.
Too much and too close to home. I snatched up my plate too quickly, hesitated and gently took his as well. Tears pricked my eyes as I scraped them into the garbage. My voice uneven, sliding because I wanted to cry, I asked him why it mattered, how he could even keep track when we hadn’t been together all that time. I turned my face from him, but my voice betrayed me. No matter. He was trying to take it somewhere, but it was crumbling.
“You’re not truly giving him a chance,” Devil me cornered me in the bathroom, “He’s trying to establish that in his eyes you have been a couple all along. You, on the other hand, have never seen him as your other half. Granted, he didn’t foster that in the beginning, but now he’s trying.”
Angel me continued, “Allow me to play Devil’s advocate. What if he was dating ONLY you over that time period? What if he wasn’t dating L? What if the card you found was old?”
I shook my head, “What if I admit that I’ve made a huge mistake and make some time to shake hands and part ways? I’m getting really busy at work now…”
“Quit hiding in your work,” Devil me growled, “Do you love him or not?”
That’s easy. I’ve always loved him, but I’ve never been certain that he loved me the same way. I’m unsure how much time I want to give him to see if this will work out. I’m not confident that it WILL work. Should I push to be together on New Years? Should I nudge him for a card on Valentine’s day? I shake my head because it sounds so ridiculous. Besides, he’ll not come through with either, and I should hardly care anyway.
I hide his Christmas card and gift in an impersonal place. Then I get nervous and hide them again. I will hide them a third time before I stop worrying. I’ve spent a lot of money on his gift. “A nice send off,” I tell Angel me. She shakes her head. He’s not considered exchanging gifts, but quickly adds that he’s got something in mind for me. I don’t tell him that I hope he’ll get me nothing. He’s working on Christmas. He’s off on New Years. I say that I’m off until New Years night, but lapse into silence. I’ll be alone. I roll on my side, away from him, and he talks about being off. I close my eyes as he launches into his grumblings about how much he hates Christmas. I deeply regret the card and gift, but can hardly back out now.
He probes a little to see what I got him. It’s all gift certificates, but I ignore him. He can regift if he hates it. I wonder if he’ll hate it. He may hate the card too.I sigh, and he catches that, “I have to get home. Early day.” While I pad across the floor and get my clothes he quips, “Come over when you can’t stay so long..” Meant to be funny, but like the crack about the length of time we’d been together, it falls flat. I walk out of the bedroom slipping my dress over my head and slipping on my shoes. I don’t even pause to comb my hair, snatch up my keys, and holler back, “Thank you for dinner, honey.” He hurries after me to give me a hug. He looks a little bewildered, but he doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He kisses me, thanks me, hugs me close, and walks me out. I drive away wondering why I even bother.
He talks to me on the phone. That’s another new thing. He always claimed that he didn’t like to talk on the phone. I never pushed it. Suddenly, he’ll call. I talk to him frequently.
He bemoans the fact that he is working and there is a holiday themed event coming up this weekend. I look it up online. It’s a pub crawl. No different than the stuff he goes to with his friends. To him it sounds like great fun. I shake my head. I shoot him a note and point out that it would be expensive, the roads would be filled with checkpoints, and ask if it would be worth it to have a stranger piss on his pants leg. I closed with a shrug and a comment, “To each his own; not feeling it.”
He backpedals, “Duh, that’s why I’d rather spend it with you.”
Bullshit. Devil me giggles even though I’ve said nothing. I respond that it’s certainly along the lines of the things he enjoys, that there’s nothing wrong with it. I just don’t like that sort of thing. Drunks are obnoxious, and his friends always smell sour and dirty. I tell him to go if he wants. He will anyway. “Besides,” I regard Devil me with tired eyes, “By then we won’t be together.” He needs that silly, sophomoric shit show. I don’t like that kind of entertainment. I don’t use that tone in my note. I resort to sarcasm and carefully turn the jokes on me. It ends up sounding like a series of funny, not so nice things happening to me. It ends up getting a little heavy when I explain myself and my behavior, but I’m careful to keep it neutral and professional.
It occurs to me that I keep a great deal from D. Angel me looks at me quizzically, “Why?” I sigh, “He tends to toss my past in my face, but he twists it, and makes it sound worse. He acts like I’m not a good person. Or at least he has. I don’t think I need to trust him with things I like, or important things like desires and dreams. I don’t even like to bring up work because I’m afraid he’ll make me out to be bad at my job.” Even though I know I’m an expert at what I do, I don’t need the hassle. My eyes burn with tears, so Angel me can only pat my shoulder and stay silent. I’ve been bitten enough. I add that to the heavy part of the note. He’ll be aware that I keep things to myself, a lot of things. It’s true, and I don’t care if he knows. I temper that with a statement about everyone having skeletons and baggage, and that most people are quick to point out faults. I tell him that I’m tired of defending shortcomings and faults.
It sounds so much more politically correct than saying “F*** you!”
I close by stating that for all the mistakes I make, there is more that I do right and well.
I was supposed to see him tonight after my Dad’s birthday dinner with his wife and the priest and assorted friends. I didn’t make it out of the house. The dog managed to cut her paw and bled everywhere. I caught her, cleaned and dressed the wound. A few moments later she removed her dressings and was bleeding everywhere. I held pressure on her paw, applied nu skin, made her comfortable and cleaned more blood. Then I called and begged off.
I changed out of my clothes.
I turned on the computer so that I could review the video of the surgery we’re doing on Monday: A complicated open heart surgery on a baby who weighs a little more than 6 lbs. I have to be there at 6 am, so I’ll get out early. D was happy about that.
I wasn’t sure why. I’m still not sure. I look at Devil me, “I guess I don’t believe him. That means it’s likely over…”
She snorts in disgust, “Hardly.”
