Demeter so far now
Bran
calls again at the same time. He asks me how I am. He tells me about
his day. We talk for hours. He becomes more interesting to me each time we talk. Absorbed into him. It is the warm tone of his voice, the pace and
rhythm, and how his thoughts unravel.... he uses words so
differently. I love how he speaks.
After
awhile, he says,
“Beth,
are you there?”
“Yes....”
“I
thought I put you to sleep.”
“No,
it's your voice....” I tell him, “it feels as if it opens my
subconscious.”
“What
do you mean?”
“I
don't know....” and I realize that I am half conscious anyway.
For
a long time he is quiet Because it is there.
“I
don't know, Beth and I guess …. the only way to really try to
explain this is to tell you that.... it's been so long since anything
has moved me.”
I ask,
“have
you ever been unfaithful?”
“No,
I mean, I never acted on it. I had only.... thoughts. We've been
together ten years.”
“Me too--Dean... and I.”
“So
have you?”
“No,”
I say.
“Not
even thoughts?” he asks.
I think and realize ... I have been too busy trying to keep everyone happy, I .... don't remember a moment for temptation and I have never liked drama. It didn't really actually occur to me that I have been unhappy until .... recently. It was the drama and the drunken violence which had become a part of Dean's regular personality... while no, there was no time to look up to notice an attractive male distraction it also would never have occurred to me to .... stray. I am not that way.
not unless --I have been wronged; then.... well, it would depend
only now this line of thinking leaves me feeling very tired and weary of the conversation
I
say,
“I
don't know.... you are the only one I.... have kissed.”
And
then once the words are out of my mouth.... the memory of his
mouth.... comes. And I recall the feel of his kiss. And now that I
have said it, I have laid it again between us.
He
asks, after that electrical pause of silence....
“which
time did you like better?”
it seems almost cruel
From
his voice, from his words, from the memory of his kiss, I burn.
There
is a loud drumming in my head. It makes me dizzy. This can't be good
for me. I am breathless. I try to conceal this and hold the phone
away, close my eyes and catch my breath. And he is still talking,
saying, “I myself can't decide.... kissing you at the traffic
light.... or at Motown Blues when you kissed me....”
After
a moment of quiet between us I whisper,
“we
can't do this.”
“We
can't do what? You mean, talk on the phone? I don't think we can
avoid it unless you want to end our business connection.”
I
say,
“you
know what I mean.”
“That
you don't want to see me again....” he says.
I
don't answer.
He
asks,
“do
you want me to stop calling you?”
I
don't answer.
Then
we are both quiet.
I
am still not well. My mind is not at its most lucid, I am fading in
and out of thought. My mind is fogged. Yet, sometimes, within that
fog, things come more obvious and clear. There is an honesty when
thoughts are not being censured by pragmatic, trained,
self-programming.
Finally,
I say,
“I
don't know what it is, Bran.... I know that this--we shouldn't do.... and know that I should feel guilty, which I .... do. I
know I should. Because it is wrong. It is only ….it doesn't feel that way..."
I
hear him breathe deeply and quietly sigh.
He
says,
“I
don't know, Beth .... but I don't think I can walk away
from.... you --without first getting the chance to know you--I feel like I would regret it for the rest of my life.”
His
words find their mark and embed.
I do not want to fall for
him.
I do not want to fall for him.
only.... I think it is too late. Yet still, I should not
give in.
I
am behaving badly. And I think, I am bad.... and
I feel so ashamed.
But
what about that decay? That was real. It is how I feel. As if I am so
alone inside and it is pouring out of me, spilling out. How many
hours have I spent in silence, mute and empty, feeling that decay;
like shut in a jar, closed up and forgotten in a drawer. My art, my
poetry, my passion to be, leaking out of me.... and wishing.... just
to be heard. To just be really heard. By someone. Finally. Who cares
enough to matter. Someone who gets it. And does not just pretend to.
He
says,
“what
if we just walked away from this now.... before anything had to
happen? It would be the right thing to do. And we could just be
friends. Like this. We can talk about our lives.”
“OK,”
I say.
“We
can just be friends, Beth.”
*******
But he calls again the next day.
And the next. He calls each day at
the same time. And after I am better. The time he calls works out
well because it is the time of day when Jamie is at school and Dean
is at work.
It is the time of day when I am usually doing my work;
writing or art. Yet, I don't mind. I willingly give it up. I feel he
is filling me. There is something different in my head from the
influence of his thoughts on me. A kind of healing that makes me
stronger every time we talk and I think:
how can this be bad?
How
can this be a sin?
But
it is. Even as nothing has really happened, it still is.
So
when I am better, I try to be a better wife. I try to please
everybody. I scrub the floors obsessively, clean and vacuum
compulsively. I listen harder what my husband says and try to engage
further when he stops short of conversation. But Dean has other things
on his mind. And it most definitely is never me.
And
maybe part of that feeling of decay is from his rejection of me.
Because I only seem to matter to him when there is something that he
needs. Otherwise, he does not see me. He does not hear me.
He
is uncomfortable with closeness. He does not like intimacy.
He
does not understand my poetry, or never looked at it long enough to
try. I think at first he found me interesting because he saw me as
quirky. Like one of those odd buttons he finds on the street that he
picks up and collects and puts in a drawer.
Yes. That is it. I am just an object he once found interesting but now.... I
am shut up in a drawer.
And
yet, I crave passion. I need it to breath.
No comments:
Post a Comment