I never saw him coming, that was the thing of it. He was literally the last man on earth I
thought I had anything to expect from whatsoever for a bunch of reasons. So I let my guard down, which I never fully
do, or had done I should say. I have walls, inner and outer and perimeter,
with jokes set up all around to trick you into thinking I’m “open”. But he was so seemingly harmless as to be
almost inert. So I told him all about it
all, all about FPH and my weird walled-offedness I could never figure out how
to get around, and attraction to people who were as bad or worse, until I was
like the human wall of China. And anyone who wasn’t walled off wound up beating
their head against me (unsuccessfully and painfully) and anyone also walled off
like that, well we’d just mostly stand next to each other never really touching
(less immediate damage but not particularly satisfying over time). And Aaron
listened carefully to all of this.
And then he took me right down, I’d told him how to after all, and he did.
And what did he find behind all those walls? Well, I’m pretty boring, that’s what. I mean, if ya like house projects, I might be
a dreamboat. My idea of a good time is making
pot roast. Going to cabins in the woods and playing board games as vacations. Going out to dinner sometimes. My perfect day
has mostly nothing in it. I like to feed
people and plant flowers. If this were
my last day on earth, I’d: get up and make bacon, watch something funny on tv
with the kids, do a few household chores (creating order makes me happy), maybe
go buy wine to go with whatever was for dinner, make love all afternoon with a nap
chaser, then get up and cook/eat again, watching something on tv again
(something DVR’d, episodes of the half a dozen favorite shows, or maybe just an
episode of Chopped on a weeknight), maybe play a board game (Cards Against
Humanity is my favorite), then read a good book and go to sleep preferably
curled in a hairy armpit. Repeat repeat,
etc. = The Good Life to me. For all the scaling of the walls, all he found inside was a small
courtyard. I have to give it to him:
that is not terribly exciting.
And as for Aaron’s role inside that courtyard, I had for him
quite a bit of pent up care I wanted to bestow.
That he was broke and hadn’t a clue how to do much for himself suited me
okay. All he had to do was be kind to me
and the kids, to pour safety on me, and
to let me do for him. I could make him meals, make sure his clothes
were clean, make sure he was and appeared
claimed and cared for by a woman, by me.
A big fat thumb-proportioned ring of my
own design. Like I said, he had listened
carefully, and he gave me everything I had been missing, which was some of what
I had not been able to take but mostly was what I had not been able to give. And
then I sent him to work, a nursing field full of women, to whom, looking like
that, complete with his packed breakfast and lunch each and every day he’d look
completely harmless. Obviously not “on the make”, not drinking his
favorite strawberry milk out of lunch bags sometimes containing random little
love notes from his woman, right? He’d
be just the kind of guy you could let your guard down around then, eh? And he’d listen carefully. And take as many women down as he wanted. As long as he hid it well from the woman at
home who would never ever suspect it in a million years, which wouldn’t be all
that hard now would it?
No wonder he could never quit smoking (?)
And how much can I bear to know? It was real to me, my life, the some very
hard but/and a lot of quietly good times in it, a decent nonviolent cherished
little life. Just the one mistress
(which considering how many times he lied and still was/is lying
about her until I refused to answer the phone anymore to listen, counts as one time like malaria counts as one illness, striking again and again to
shit your brains out over) – jesus, that’s plenty to take both my life and the
illusion of my life away from me in “one” go.
And from the perspective I have now, looking back, it’s possible he’s
been ‘providing a harmless ear’ fuck-shopping for my replacement for God knows
how long, how many times. So I have to
give it to him again: I’d rather not know.
"Call Your Girlfriend (Robyn cover)," Lucy Wainwright Roche (9.5 on the pain scale)
