8:34 a.m. - 2005-11-02
This Time Rant
This time, there was something different. Over Larry's shoulder, I would find myself looking at the red glare of his digital clock. Marking my exit. Lingering long enough not to offend. Citing this reason or that for cutting short our night. Assuring him that I would prefer to stay. Slipping like oil onto the dark street. Driving off into the repose of his absence. Breathing the free air. Performance over. Sweet reprise. Back home, I would slink into my soft flowered sheets. Watch Mad TV. Sip a Coke. It was as though I needed him there in the wings in order to allow myself the luxury of my own company. To know that I was yet desired by the beast and then to be done with it. Precious solitude. Mask discarded. Penance sufficient for the time being. I had cast him in the role of persecutor, dark villain, spoiler of my joy. And somewhere inside I knew it. This time I could not completely pretend. A poor attempt at ventriloquy, this time I could detect my own lips moving subtly behind his poisonous words. By chance, my hand would come suddenly visible just above the tangled strings. Chips of garish paint seemed to break away from Larry's wry smile as I tried to look the other way. We were talking about a second marriage. A future together. Getting it right this time. But I would find myself stepping on his lines, missing familiar cues. Courting the spotlight in my own life. He seemed not to notice, persona securely in place. But there was a palpable distance churning between us. The timing was off. Wooden parts clicked together, grace foregone. An embrace required coreography. Our clumsy attempts to kiss left us empty and stinging. As my birthday approached, I clung to the charade. He opened the door with an almost childlike enthusiasm, calling me "birthday girl" and proudly producing a beautiful cake and ornate gift bag. I feigned gleefullness. We set out for a movie. Larry chose a horror film but, being my birthday, I worked up the courage to assert my own preference. Giggling, I said that I wanted a "chick flick". Hilary Duff. Groaning, he assented. At the mall, we had our picture taken in the little photo booth, waiting like children for the black and white strip to emerge. We laughed at our exaggerated grins and frowns. In the movie, we cuddled and poked fun at the predictable, syrupy script, the wooden performances. It seemed, for a moment, that the cloud was gone. We moved in synch. We were going to eat at the Pizza Cookery. Sawdust on the floor and amazing garlic rolls. Having eaten a huge box of popcorn, we had time to kill before dinner. There was a stereo equipment store just next door to the restaurant. Larry was intrigued, but condescendingly told me that I would no doubt be bored. I agreed to go for a short time, still brandishing my "birthday girl" privileges. He struck up a conversation with a salesman, who began to demonstrate speaker after speaker. I shifted on the stool, listening to the live version of "Hotel California". I promised myself that we would leave after that. Jackson Browne piped loudly through yet another speaker. Then it was fusion jazz. Occasionally, Larry would cast a look over his shoulder. By then, the salesman was assuring Larry that he alone knew the finer workings of stereos. He had never encountered such an astute customer. He knew at once that Larry was a musician, a composer, a genius. Finally, doing my best rendition of Hilary, petulant and girly, I walked over to the two of them. I asked Larry if he could perhaps get the salesman's card and continue the conversation later. I was getting hungry. I was, after all, the "birthday girl". Larry smiled, took the card and we walked out into the parking lot where he told me that he had never seen this side of me. That I was emasculating and mean. That I must have done this in every relationship and that was why I had multiple marriages. That I was a failure. That it would take him a long time to heal from this. That I would have to work extra hard to convince him that I was the person he had known me to be. Slumped on the concrete, I cried. I begged his forgiveness. I sobbed until the paint of my own mask began to melt. I promised to change. To be what it was he wanted. To be the person he professed to love. I begged to be taken back into his dubious graces. I pleaded and cried and begged and sobbed and melted on the sidewalk before his cold eyes. Silently, we drove back to his place. Inside, the gift bag stared mockingly at my ringed eyes. He said that he was in no mood to watch me blow out candles and open presents. Banished, I slumped out into the night. I sat outside in my car for what seemed like hours, waiting for him to fetch me back into the warmth of love. I waited and I cried. I prayed for God to plant a sparrow on the hood of my car to confirm His love for me. And a sparrow landed on the hood of the car parked in front of mine. And I laughed and I cried some more. Finally, I drove home with a frightening emptiness. Home to me. A mixed blessing. The real love/hate relationship that consumed my joy. Home to the steward who continually squandered God's precious gifts. The prodigal returning home to no fanfare. I was afraid for the depth of my despair. I dared, for the first time, to be angry with God. Angry that I was so weak, so stupid, so alone. And I leaned on Him in a real way for the first time. This time.
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