wish i were inside instead of having to respond to you. there i would run my fingertips over the twined fibers, eyes feast- ing on a kaleidoscope of color. in that peaceful place, i could focus and create a flow of possibilities and hope. You despise the store, and i know that we won’t have time to go in. my family’s economy of emotion trained me as an alchemist. i gather the words, spoken and not, put them in a vessel, heat them with my mind, and transmute the meaning. i can also anticipate the explosions that invariably follow repression. You’re asking me this as a general question, much as
you would inquire whether someone prefers maui or Kauai. i sip my chai tea latte and think of an affirmation i recently learned; i am the only authority in my life. i am in control of my mind. as the words roll through my mind, smoothing the edges
with a protective balm, i feel you glance at me. my stomach relaxes, my breath evens, and your power withdraws, like strong hands loosening their grip from my neck. “Yes, i intend to get married someday.” You nod at me as though agreeing but continue to push
your agenda forward. “But why marriage? Let’s just have a child together. We don’t have to be married. no matter what happens with us, i’d always support it.” You said this before — having a child, an “it” together —
but you had drunk a bottle of cabernet and smoked a joint. i hadn’t realized the notion had bobbed up to your sober mind. “i wouldn’t have a child with someone i’m not married to.”
i know you’ll continue to assert your position; you were a de- bate champion once. i stop listening. You’ll remind me about my advance to forty and the inevitable infertility beyond; the reality that i live in a city full of young and beautiful women with more arriving all the time. You use words to manipulate, not to communicate. i de-
spise this about you. i watch this dance with muted interest. Soon i tire of your talk. “Before we leave, i’d like to duck into that yarn store.”
Without a glance, you head to your car. “it’s time to go.” FFF
You’re in bed on tuesday morning. i’ve moved into the
other bedroom to sleep, but my clothes still hang next to yours in the closet. they look as lifeless as i feel. “Why don’t you come to bed? Why do you insist on this
stupid arrangement?” you say to me over and over. You don’t understand. of course you wouldn’t. this is about me, not you. Your ability to know me is limited. i’m pulling back, separating from you as though remov-
ing a Band-aid. it hurts, it’s scary, and i’m not sure what’s underneath. But i keep at it. i know that this thing can’t stay covered up forever.
i’ve showered in the guest bathroom and secure my robe
around my waist. i slip through our room and into the walk-in closet undetected. Closing the door, i sit on the carpet and watch my clothes like television for a few moments, mentally flipping through them and looking for something interest- ing. my eyes sweep across your half of the closet and rest on the suit you wore to my sister Cathy’s wedding. Before the ceremony, you got stoned in the bushes behind the church and drifted away. i engage in this daily subterfuge because i don’t want you
to see me naked, or even in a robe. i don’t want you to want me in that way. my ear presses against the closet door so that i can figure
out how close you are to waking. i’ve gotten very good at determining this — the only time i have to myself, it seems, is when you are sleeping. i often creep around like this in the morning. You rustle the covers. i steal out of the closet with my
clothes clutched to my chest and tiptoe down the hall to the extra bedroom. i’m barely through the door when you call for me. You do
that every morning, like a baby waking from his nap, con- fused by his surroundings. i tell you i’ll be right there, and i dress.
FFF i remember the first time you hit me. it caught us both by
surprise. You, armani and martinis. me, vintage and cham- pagne. You were receiving an award that night for your ac- complishments in film. We were in the parking lot long after the ceremony had ended. You had wanted another drink to celebrate the night. But i know a part of you feels like a fraud. You insisted on driving; you do that when you feel inse-
cure. the power of the machine in your hands makes you feel strong. the danger reclaims your reckless youth. that night, i wasn’t going to let you drive me. i wedged myself in between you and the driver’s door. i
grabbed at the keys in your hand. Your yelling echoed off the walls as you told me that you would drive and that i needed to get the hell out of your way. i refused. then it happened. Your hand, the one with the keys, came at me. a half slap-
half push, it only left a slight scratch. no one even noticed it. We both stopped; the night stillness around us. Without a
word, you handed me the keys and got in the passenger seat. We drove home listening to “Love Line.” i was thankful my life
wasn’t as screwed up as those callers’ that night. FFF
i’ve often imagined it. Your death that is. Frankly, i would be relieved if you died. Sometimes i picture you driving your
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