She always does
that. The
ice pick comment that burns in my head for days always comes in the seconds before I
leave. It's her not-so-
subtle revenge for my leaving her codependent
sphere of influence. I am fascinated by the
clockwork fashion of it, like a magnetic iceberg slipping through the waves toward
my frail thin hull. A sick sense of futility is my new reaction to the
predestined fight.
Onward to battle!
I flip the
suitcase latches closed and make for the door quietly. The traitorous
floor creaks in the early morning sunlight. So much for my
escape. She rolls languidly over and cracks her eyelids. I feel like a
fly under a giant
pushpin. The question comes next. "Where are you going?" will be beaten into the cold
granite of my
headstone. It is the
byline of my life.
The quickest route to the end is the undoctored truth. I'm off on a
three state tour of children's toy manufacturers.
Insurance reviews. No, I won't be home in the meantime. Yes, I'll call
every night. Me and Jeff from
Accounting and Tony from
Health standards. I don't know how many trips they go on a
year. It's a part of my job. I don't get more trips than anyone
else. No, I don't like leaving. No, I'm not
lying. I have to go.
That's enough
gas on the fire.
All my old friends come out to play. '
Wasted the best years' smiles and tips his hat. '
Don't love me' asks about my health. '
Must be cheating' smiles and chats about the weather. '
Should have left' apologizes for arriving late. That's
OK old friend. I glaze in the usual manner, reciting the
water off a duck's back mantra. Catching her
morning fresh promises a good ride.
I absentmindedly wonder how I got in this
rut. I knew she was
needy when I met her leaving the therapist's office. It occurs to me that the weeks of
bliss and the rush to the altar seem manufactured now. A
thin facade dressed in bright
Hollywood lights. A glittering track into the slaughterhouse for a poor dazzled cow.
Moo.
I find myself at the door, watching the dance of
apoplectic rage dressed in the face of a middle aged woman in a
dressing gown. She is desperate now, lashing out in
strange and
fantastic directions. I feel
pity. All she wants is
control. She wants to polish me up like a
knickknack and stick me on a
shelf. I would stay, but I am
compelled to travel. It is a
petty drive for revenge that moves me about the countryside. It's not healthy, but dammit, its my way. The oldest way in the world. An
intimate hatred born of strangled lazy love. Crocodile tears track down her cheeks, but the sadness doesn't reach her
hard eyes.
"
I love you, you asshole!"
Ouch.
An ode to dem bones's homenode and the good people at somethingawful.com