She wasn’t much of a clean freak, that was for sure. Sitting on her tapestry-draped couch with her thin legs crossed high at the thighs, she leaned heavily on her elbows as she stared methodically at her perfectly manicured nails. She ignored the dust circling through the air and landing unceremoniously on her celebrity-magazine covered coffee table as well as the beeping of the coffeemaker in the kitchen alerting her that her brew was ready and had actually been ready for quite some time. She wasn’t sure she’d be drinking it, not alone at least.
If her eyes had not fixed themselves so obsessively on her maroon colored nails, they might have traveled to the closed door that separated her from the rest of the world. Someone was to have knocked on that door some time ago but she’d all but resigned herself to fixating on the next worldly problem – when would the first chip occur in her polish and how long after that until there were more and how long after that until she’d have to give in on this round and remove what was left so she could start all over again.
There was no knock, after all. What else should she be thinking about on this warm afternoon in the thick of a New England fall? The changing of the leaves or the adding of layers of clothes with each progressing day? Should she allow her mind to skip ahead to winter when she’d walk with her face turned down towards the ground to avoid the glare of the harsh sun against the relentless white of snow? No, it made more sense to stay grounded here, on her couch, with her legs pressed tightly together, her straight blonde hair hanging at attention just past her shoulders.
Sooner or later, though, the light outside wouldn’t be enough to sustain her and she’d have to move and when she would, her eyes would drift anywhere but towards that unanswerable door. To the box in the open hall closet that was intended to be a gracious means of transportation for his belongings to wherever he’d like those belongings to reside now that it wasn’t with her. If she let herself, she would imagine exactly what could fit in that box, maybe even things he hadn’t left behind, but things that were important to them – backstage passes to The Black Keys won on a radio show, a trophy from their kickball team, faded photos of them pressed together at places like beaches or reunions or ski slopes. If that empty box was packed just so, it would contain everything he would need to remember what he was losing and she’d be rid of it without regret.
Theirs was a breakup of her design. You’ll have to leave now, she’d said softly with clear eye contact. It had been weeks since the whole thing happened right here in this room, sitting side-by-side, dulled and silent. His eyes had widened for a moment before he swallowed hard and said, But I can help you. She had stood up and walked to the door. Opening it, she had said, I can help myself. After he had disappeared through this portal to the outside world, she’d felt her entire being light up like a golden flame and that is how she knew she had done the right thing.
They met when he stopped her in the middle of a park in the suburb of Boston where she’d grown up and asked her where she’d found the blue flower stuck behind her ear. She’d smiled at him and something zipped close inside her, something snug and comforting and warm. This was a good man who would love her – she knew it right away and he figured it out soon enough.
If only he was free to love her -- that was the only setback.
And technically, he was. His wife knew she wasn't the only one and so he never apologized for nights they spent apart. His capacity to love was greater than average -- and wife or not, she felt fulfilled of the promise he'd made that first night together -- I will be here for you, anything you need, any time at all. And it was all she needed for a long time. Their time together was precious, not wasted. Not wasted, that is, until a holiday rolled around or his birthday -- then she realized their time was borrowed, shared, not their own. Her friends avoided direct eye contact with her when she'd talk about him, good things and bad. They wanted more for her and she could feel that want in her gut more and more each withering day.
Then one morning and she woke up and realized she couldn’t get out of bed. The sheer weight of life pressed down upon her as he zipped up his jeans and threw on a t-shirt to go on with his day without her. He said he'd be back and he would but her eyes unfocused and she lost track of time. She half-slept with her mouth open and stared at the dust circling through the air.
For days she barely moved, barely spoke, refused all contact with the outside world -- even when he used his key to come in and spoon beside her in bed and talk about his day and try to coax her to have a story of her own. She could feel his concern but she could feel him being too late. And when she finally was able to sit up straight and stare at her long-since neglected nails, she knew what had to be done. First, she needed to stand on her own two feet. Second, she needed to move her two feet out of this sad room. And third, she needed to take care of her nails. She felt a certain thrill leaving the apartment and heading towards the nail salon two blocks over. She felt a certain thrill knowing that he’d come to see her and find her gone. Her mind raced with the conclusions he might draw. He’d never guess she’d gone out get her nails done. And the whole time she was at the salon, she thought and thought and thought about what had kept her trapped in bed for so long, what had prevented her from listening to his attempts to rally her, what had locked her down and by the time her nails were completely dried, her eyes widened for a moment before she closed them.
She needed her life back. There. That was it. She got up and left the salon and walked triumphantly through the door to find their shared space empty. Her shoulders sagged as her intended effect was lost when he showed up behind her moments later and she’d flinched when he’d touched her on the arm. We need to talk, she said.
After he was gone, she’d swept her arms around life and let it seep into her with abandon. Men came home with her whenever she asked them to and she imagined the one she’d sent away standing in the corner, watching her as she sprawled with these new suitors on the couch or curled intimately with them in her feather bed. She could almost still feel his arms around her in the shower and she could nearly feel his breath kiss her face as the mornings dawned. She’d watch these new men drink from his favorite coffee cups and stare at paintings he’d selected and it caused a thrilling flash through her to see these men-who-weren’t-him take these things in without knowing a thing about their history. They didn’t realize they were in a haunted house and she was in no hurry to tell them, either.
She was never in a hurry about anything, it seemed. She felt warm and content sitting on her couch as the dust swirled around her and the polish on her nails remained intact. Maybe that knock on the door would never come. No matter. It was all just wasted time.
This short story was written in 2013
Based on the Anomopoly song "Wasted Time"
No comments:
Post a Comment