June 18, 2000
Imaginary:
He changed my life and I didn’t know what to say to him, as we stood together on my front porch, as the wind blew and the trees bent and rattled, as I waited for him to kiss me. And the wind just blew. Then he left, looking back once, hesitantly, trying to look nonchalant. And drove away.
For several moments, I stood alone in the twilight. When the wind stopped blowing suddenly, I went back into the house. It felt like floating, like swimming, I don’t remember taking steps.
The house was empty, clean, and dark. The sun had fully set, and the shadows were black. The hard-wood floor was cold on my bare feet, and it shimmered in the moonlight coming in through the huge living room window.
Very still, I became entranced in
the way moonlight forms a beam, like sunlight, and how that beam struck
the floor with a cool shine, like magic. I was drawn to it, that
splash of moonbeam. As I moved toward it, I lowered myself, until
I was crawling. My heart was pounding, pounding, and I was breathing
in deep sighs and gasps. I kneeled in the moonlight, and covered
my face in my hands, and cried. Tears rolled down my hands and arms,
and it bothered me because it was all so unbeautiful. I cried loudly,
moaning, keening. I rocked, I shook, I fell deep inside. I
wept, I cried, I sobbed. And when I was done, I opened my eyes and
looked around, suddenly wanting to laugh. I thought it silly
for a grown woman to cry on the floor. And then I began to cry again.
Last
What would happen if I leaned over and whispered in his ear? Would he laugh, and make me feel dumb, or would he react the way I want him to, and kiss me? It’s been far too long, and I’ve betrayed him once too many times. But he loved me once, I know it, we shared it. I used to whisper in his ear. And he used to kiss me.
First
I just woke up one morning. Just woke up, and I rolled over and looked at him, sleeping next to me. I looked at him with the coldness of a lifetime spent dreaming, and I had just woken up. I woke up, and knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life with him.
And it shocked me. I was scared. I barely breathed, and I watched him sleep, watched him breathe. I saw his youth, and easily imagined how he would age. His hair would thin, his skin would sallow and sag, and his eyes would fade. I imagined lying next to him every morning for the rest of my life. I saw myself, empty and hard and tired, years from now, still curling away from him as he slept, not wanting to share my space, resenting his presence.
Then the alarm went off and I was shocked anew. He didn’t hear it, heard nothing. I laid there, shaking, watching him sleep through his alarm. I became enraged. Fiercely, I grabbed the pillow from under my head, still warm from my sleep, and I hit him. I hit him as hard as I could. And before I even saw his reaction, I hit him again, and again, and again. I was shouting, “Get up! Get up! Get up!” He was covering his face with his hands, and laughing at me. I went nuts, swinging at him from every direction, screaming now, my hair in my eyes. He wouldn’t get up. He wouldn’t get out of my bed! “Get up! Get up! Get up!” I hit him harder, and harder, beginning to laugh too. But all I was thinking was I don’t love you anymore. What happened? What went wrong? I don’t love you anymore. And he thought it was funny. He thought it was funny, but everything had changed.