13 October 2013

Chapter 11 Bran and Beth; voice 'n mist

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. 

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