Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Argument
He sat on the bench in his back yard, on top of the slab of ten by ten concrete that felt as cold as his heart. His forearms rested on the top of his thighs, his head cupping his temples. If he had been a smoker, or this had been the 1950's, an unfiltered Camel would have rested between his right index and middle finger lifting an aroma of fine North Carolina tobacco into the air.
It wasn't, nor was he that romantic in his white t-shirt and blue jeans. The sun was slowly setting to his left and the clouds probably brought the only peaceful sight to his day. The pastoral mix of pastels - oranges, pinks, purples and light blues - mixed with the smoke from his imaginary cigarette that burned with the setting sun.
He leaned back stretching his bare feet further down the concrete to a spot un-warmed by his skin and leaned back with his arms crossed over his unsettled stomach. It was nicer inside, more comfortable, more enjoyable, but the tension was too much.
Inside she washed vegetables. Potatoes, carrots, and then caught herself trying to clean a can of soup to throw in the stew she was preparing. She hated tension, and she knew he hated tension. Scrubbing vegetables seemed to burn off the adrenaline, but not fast enough. It had been months like this. The cycle was predictable and pathetic for two grown intelligent adults. Spark, argument, angry words, silence, calm.
In between wasn't that bad. But in between wasn't long enough or far enough in between. It was like you just kept expecting it. Never violent, just sporadic bouts of thoughts of incompatibility, unmet expectations that always lead to, well, moments like these.
She put the vegetable in the pot and the damp can back in the pantry. Everything was ready. Except her or him. Neither liked giving in, nor did either need to. It would happen when someone would just kind of laugh and say, "Ya, well let's move on." It was a life without, "I'm sorry's," "Will you forgive me's," or, "It's ok's." And that made for a hard life. A very hard life.
It wasn't hard in the sense that they were a couple on the edge of divorce, although it would seem like it at times. They weren't next to homeless, or destitute or riddled with disease. Actually, they were regular people. They worked, played a little and had friends, but fought a lot. Besides, what kind of Mary Poppins is happy all the time?
She sat down on the couch and opened the People she had gotten in the mail thumbing through the tattle rag of stories dedicated to upholding the image of ne'er-do-well and malcontents the country seemed to value. Was it that they were valued or that they were the escape from normal life? And that's what she wanted and that's what he wanted, but both of them were normal life run by the choices they made to cause their own problems.
What he wanted was a pleasant smile and a kiss at the door and some respect for what he did. In reality, she had no clue what he did, but it wasn't because she didn't care. No it was because she just couldn't grasp the concepts involved in what he did. He'd explained it to his dismay and frustration a million times. He even thought about just telling her he played piano in a whore house just so she might get it. His work was complicated and involved lots of processes and people, but he mostly wanted her to respect the complexity and the artistry in conducting business. She didn't.
She wanted him to show her the help she needed around the house. He vacuumed and she wondered if a their really was a riding vacuum. Anything to get him more interested in her life. She felt un-needed and not very special. In his world, the women were smart intelligent and gorgeous. They had multiple degrees and laughed and drove Mercedes sports cars. How could she compete with that. Through all of it, she never suspected him of cheating. No odd receipts showed up, no strangers calling from hotel phone numbers, no loss of time.
He was either incredibly good at deception or he just didn't cheat. In her mind, he just didn't cheat.
In his mind, he never wanted to cheat. He loved her and there wasn't a more pleasant woman, until recently. What started as a steamy slow cooker of romance had turned into something less than tepid. He grew tired of hearing stories about her friends and their daily problems. It almost seemed like whining. He offered suggestions to help, but that just started the "spin cycle", as he called it, all over again. Now and then recently she had caught him not even listening. It was a no win situation.
And the stew began to simmer.
He walked in and realized the world would be a slightly different place.
It wasn't, nor was he that romantic in his white t-shirt and blue jeans. The sun was slowly setting to his left and the clouds probably brought the only peaceful sight to his day. The pastoral mix of pastels - oranges, pinks, purples and light blues - mixed with the smoke from his imaginary cigarette that burned with the setting sun.
He leaned back stretching his bare feet further down the concrete to a spot un-warmed by his skin and leaned back with his arms crossed over his unsettled stomach. It was nicer inside, more comfortable, more enjoyable, but the tension was too much.
Inside she washed vegetables. Potatoes, carrots, and then caught herself trying to clean a can of soup to throw in the stew she was preparing. She hated tension, and she knew he hated tension. Scrubbing vegetables seemed to burn off the adrenaline, but not fast enough. It had been months like this. The cycle was predictable and pathetic for two grown intelligent adults. Spark, argument, angry words, silence, calm.
In between wasn't that bad. But in between wasn't long enough or far enough in between. It was like you just kept expecting it. Never violent, just sporadic bouts of thoughts of incompatibility, unmet expectations that always lead to, well, moments like these.
She put the vegetable in the pot and the damp can back in the pantry. Everything was ready. Except her or him. Neither liked giving in, nor did either need to. It would happen when someone would just kind of laugh and say, "Ya, well let's move on." It was a life without, "I'm sorry's," "Will you forgive me's," or, "It's ok's." And that made for a hard life. A very hard life.
It wasn't hard in the sense that they were a couple on the edge of divorce, although it would seem like it at times. They weren't next to homeless, or destitute or riddled with disease. Actually, they were regular people. They worked, played a little and had friends, but fought a lot. Besides, what kind of Mary Poppins is happy all the time?
She sat down on the couch and opened the People she had gotten in the mail thumbing through the tattle rag of stories dedicated to upholding the image of ne'er-do-well and malcontents the country seemed to value. Was it that they were valued or that they were the escape from normal life? And that's what she wanted and that's what he wanted, but both of them were normal life run by the choices they made to cause their own problems.
What he wanted was a pleasant smile and a kiss at the door and some respect for what he did. In reality, she had no clue what he did, but it wasn't because she didn't care. No it was because she just couldn't grasp the concepts involved in what he did. He'd explained it to his dismay and frustration a million times. He even thought about just telling her he played piano in a whore house just so she might get it. His work was complicated and involved lots of processes and people, but he mostly wanted her to respect the complexity and the artistry in conducting business. She didn't.
She wanted him to show her the help she needed around the house. He vacuumed and she wondered if a their really was a riding vacuum. Anything to get him more interested in her life. She felt un-needed and not very special. In his world, the women were smart intelligent and gorgeous. They had multiple degrees and laughed and drove Mercedes sports cars. How could she compete with that. Through all of it, she never suspected him of cheating. No odd receipts showed up, no strangers calling from hotel phone numbers, no loss of time.
He was either incredibly good at deception or he just didn't cheat. In her mind, he just didn't cheat.
In his mind, he never wanted to cheat. He loved her and there wasn't a more pleasant woman, until recently. What started as a steamy slow cooker of romance had turned into something less than tepid. He grew tired of hearing stories about her friends and their daily problems. It almost seemed like whining. He offered suggestions to help, but that just started the "spin cycle", as he called it, all over again. Now and then recently she had caught him not even listening. It was a no win situation.
And the stew began to simmer.
He walked in and realized the world would be a slightly different place.
