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I don’t know how I get myself into these situations. I really don’t. One day I’m spending my evening watching several romantic comedies on the W channel, bottle of beer and basket of gummy worms in hand and the remote control for the automatic fireplace my aunt picked for my apartment in the other, and the next I’m here, at his house, watching his movies and eating some lukewarm leftover curry from the fridge which might just be his and might just be hers. You heard me; his and hers--- joint curry from joint Tupperware in their joint living room. Even he himself is a little bit joint--- theirs.
Now, my mother always said sharing is caring, but I’m fairly sure that taking parts of other people’s stuff wasn’t what she had in mind. Taking is tension, she’d probably say. In her head, if she were where I’m sitting right now(as if she’d ever be), she’d be thinking “whore, “tramp”, and “selfish slut” at least, I figure, and would perhaps be self flagellating until she booked it from the living room, back out to her car and all the way home. There is no way she’d be considering heating the curry a little bit more to bring out the cumin taste. There is no way she’d be applauding my penchant for turning off and acting like a man today, like she often has when I play devils advocate, when I play sports and when I wear suit jackets to the bar. There is no benefit, she’d say, to being emotionally “strong” when it makes you act like an asshole and take off your shirt in another woman’s joint living room. Now I’m just putting my words into her mouth; that’s what I’m saying. I’m really quite repulsed with myself. Regardless, here I am, sitting on their couch, not even that nice of a couch, really, while he goes and cleans himself up in their bathroom so we can go out on the town like a couple of people in love who aren’t lying to everybody. Maybe I am feeling guilty today. Maybe I just need to put this shit back in the fridge and stop overfeeding myself so much. I do that and then put a bit of lipstick on before he comes out of the bathroom and takes my hands, kisses me slowly on the lips, the cheek, the neck and the ear. “Are you ready to go?” I nod, sinking into him like a dog glad to see its master. “Am I ever” . We drive into the city listening to some quiet indie pop because it’s my car and therefore my cd changer. I can’t help but be possessive, these days, over the things I don’t have to share. The Smiths are on full volume; what difference does it make? Part of the reason I like him is that he never notices that I theme the music to stuff that feels 'relevant'; I don’t think he even notices the lyrics at all, although he does pick up on good beat. He smiles and it’s completely infectious. This old man's head is locked in ear to ear grin and is bopping along to the world’s most upbeat depressing song. The devil will find work for idle hands to do,
I stole and then I lied and why? Because you asked me to.. I’m smiling more with him than at him, and I almost run us off the road. He’s smiling at me, though, and doesn’t even notice. His head slides up my leg, and I start. I don’t think he’ll ever believe that I bullshitted my way through the driving test like I do almost everything else and actually need to watch the road. With the world’s best short term memory and a funny quip here and there you don’t have to learn much, you see. I can’t remember the last time I developed a real skill, and driving sure wasn’t one of them. I look at him and raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. Oh my sacred LOOOVEEE—LOOOOVEE …. The hand rises higher and his smile grows wider. Whoever made that law against texting and driving should have thought of this first; some people really can check the address while steering, but no one can multi-task this well. I refuse to believe it. I’m debating pulling over somewhere to save both our lives when his phone rings and it’s her. The hand slides free like she’s right in front of us and the smiths get quieter. His voice takes on an even, higher pitch. “Hey babe” LOOOVEE… LOOOOOVE…. I focus on the music and ignore the conversation, although snippets sneak through the halo of my indie trance. “Yea, I’m in a store…. No… I’ll pick it up….. Of course... talk to her about it……….I’ll see you soon. Bye babe”. He hangs up and stares ahead for a couple seconds before looking back towards me; I imagine he uses that time to switch modes. “You really are a terrible driver”, he says. I laugh and everything is back to normal. I never ask questions about it, you see, about his phone calls, about their conversations, necessary household items, sex life, family life, curry ingredients or future. I never feel right to ask about the life that isn’t mine. It’s not because I don’t want to know what exactly, but because I don’t want to understand why. If I know why he’s here I’ll know it isn’t really because of me for sure, and then I’ll feel foolish indeed. Wilful ignorance is a powerful thing, and I’m willing myself to be here and shut the fuck up. Something is seriously wrong with me.
We drive on over a bridge and into a parking lot. “What do you want to do?” I ask. He’s got his hand now wrapped in mine, and, like is always the case when he wants me close to him, I only have half as much control over the wheel. I park terribly and pull the key from the ignition with my left hand before he looks out onto the skyscape and then moves, leaning his head into my chest like a lost child and his hands around me, arm pressed to the small of my waist. My hand goes to his head as if by instinct. “ I just want to spend time here. With you.” He says. The track ends and there is nothing but twinkling lights and silence. I don’t know how I get myself into these situations, but something about this reminds me of a moment on the W channel and I love that. I also know I need to watch less tv. |
