Well… These words come out of her mouth now. These tears fall from her face, and I am none-the-wiser. She has probably said a total of 6 words in 5 days. Pertaining. Precaution would be look ahead and notice any dangers. What’s the opposite of that? Because that’s what I doing, probably. I feel like I should be scared. I feel like I should be worried. I know I should be pissed. I’m a little pissed. I am. Then I’m like what the fuck? How can someone be so drenched in confusion, yet so calm? I am not even worried about it. I tried to explain it to my friend, and I couldn’t form sentences correctly. I didn’t have examples. I didn’t use any of my famous metaphor techniques. I just sounded like a fucking idiot. I paced. I don’t pace, who does that? And I can’t talk to her about it. We don’t have to apparently.
The other night she came over, we cooked dinner, well she cooked. I sat there reading to her. (She cooked a dish that’s traditionally popular for her. Meat and potatoes. From what I can gather, it’s obviously a meat and potatoes dish, but it’s more like a soup with some specific Mexican seasoning.) Once dinner was completed, she made our plates; she does that. She always makes my plate and hers. She always ask what I want drink before she sits down. She used to tell me, in the beginning, how traditionally the women serve the men. Not that I’m the man, but in our situation I would be. A few days ago, I gave her shit because she hasn’t been serving me or even cooking for that matter. I told her, “You tricked me!” and she laughed from her belly.
Sometimes I worry about what I am saying to her, careful not to piss her off. Like she hates the word “bitch”, that’s a no-no in this house. But it’s like one of my favorite words to say, so I struggle with that often. She hates that word. It’s cute. I mean she gets pretty mad about it, but it’s cute when she’s mad. Even when she’s like thinking about punching me in the face, it is still cute. They always say, don’t laugh at a woman when she’s mad, but it’s just so stinking cute, that I can’t help but laugh. One time I laughed so much that I had to pull the car over and apologize. She was pretty pissy the rest of the night. I can’t say I’ll work on that because it’s my favorite. There’s these little things about her that I can never fully put into words especially, when trying to explain it to other people. And it’s weird. Especially, when she is the only thing I talk about.
So back to the story. We watched “Fifty Shades of Grey” and ate dinner. We enjoy watching movies together and this time she didn’t fall asleep before it ended. However, when it ended things went from causal to intense, with no words spoken. I can tell you what I was thinking, but I couldn’t begin to describe how she was feeling. I thought, ‘well the movie is over now, now I have to figure out whether or not she is staying.’ I said nothing. I placed my forehead against hers and tried to come up with the words to ask her to stay. I felt sad because it was a decision that was not mine to make, one that could not go favorably for me. I felt sad because she could leave me, and I did not want her to do that. But I couldn’t find the words. I began to cry. I didn’t know where the tears came from but I wanted her to know that I was emotionally connected to the question I was about to ask. I rubbed my wet cheek against her nose then her cheek. Only, to feel that her cheek had been moisten by her tears. I cried harder. I felt my chest expand in a search for air, as all I could do was hold my breath to keep from weeping. She kissed my eyelid, then my forehead. Her wet lips from the dripping tears, against my forehead sent chills through my spinal cord. We sat there. We said nothing. I could barely see her eyes, as they were so filed with tears. I could barely open mine. I began to feel angry. Why is she crying? What’s so tough for her? I sat straight up. She clinched on to me, and started to speak out loud, yet so softly. “What are you doing to me, Gail?” she said with her head pressed again my left shoulder, her arms wrapped around my arm, wiping her tears on my shirt shelve. I remember the way she said my name, upset me. Sometimes the tone of her voice changes to my ears. Sometimes it’s like coming from her soul and it’s a soft angelic sound that travels through my body like blood. She continues, “I don’t know how to not love you and I’m scared. You scare me.” I sat there, like I am sitting here now. Virtually, in the same spot, I have nothing to say. I had nothing to say. Her eyes completely closed from the tears that now drip, down her chin. She ran her hand across the back of my head, before tossing it in the air, with frustration…desperation. I can’t watch her crumble. I can’t be the reason for the crumble. I wipe her tears, and I take her head and cuff it in my bicep. I have nothing to say, still. I tell her not to be scared. That I was there for her. I mean… I needed to be reassuring. I need to be supportive. Yet, I am not the one that made it such a mess. She says things but doesn’t give explanations. Just words. Statements really. She could be with him right now. I don’t know, because I don’t ask. I always assume, because she doesn’t lie. She will tell the truth rather it hurts or not. I don’t want to know, if it’s going to hurt. So, I assume the worst all the time. She is the bad guy in all my scenarios because I am way too chicken shit to ask. The past tells me that, she doesn’t hesitate to tell the truth, even when not provoked. So, if I am thinking she’s lying next to him kissing right now, though she spent all night telling me how much she loved kissing me, so be it. Much better than…well fuck that it’s not better. It’s not okay. I feel sorry for her. So I don’t need to make it any worse. I know what I want. I know how to get it, I know how to make it succeed. She has none of those answers, between the known and the unknown, so I feel sorry for her. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Because I don’t like it. I hate it, actually. I just don’t have to make it worse.
I met her dad. I was afraid of that meeting. I couldn’t really picture how it would go. She speaks so honestly and respectfully about him. I know this man’s soul from the stories she tells. It’s always out of random when she decides to tell me something so passionately, terrifically “real”. But I have never met him. This particular day, he was expecting his 6th child with his new wife. There had been some complications, so Layla was understandably nervous about it. I offered to come up to the hospital just to kind of take everyone’s mind off things. I actually just was worried. Thinking back, I don’t know why I asked. But I asked. And she said, “If you want,” I told her that I would just hang out in the waiting room, but she sent me the floor and room number. I walked in there like I belonged. Her dad was on the phone so the first 15 seconds were weird. The mother-to-be hooked up to machines, the lights out. Once he got off the phone. I stood up, I looked him dead in his eye, and I shook his hand. I said, “Hi! I’m Gail.” He said in a whisper, “Hey, Danny.” Phew. Once the handshake concluded, I could feel myself entering my body, again. Ha. Nervous doesn’t nearly explain how I felt. I was calm though, because what’s the worst that could happen. We sat down and we chatted about California. His voice was so soft but yet confident. I remember thinking, “I can hardly him, but I know exactly what he is saying,” I was paying that much attention, and you could tell he appreciated that. I am lucky that our interaction came on the cuffs of a much more pressing matter, and a joyous one. I am also lucky it was short-lived. Turns out he liked me. Said, I was respectable and seem intelligent. Layla made sure to mention, that she confirmed my intelligence. She knows how I feel about that. That makes me feel like I am a superhero, as pathetic as that sounds. She speaks with such authority in regards to him. The most important person in her life, and he thinks that we should stick together because he, “knows we will get far in life.” What bar did I set for myself? Yikes. Ha.
I joke because that’s all I want to do. I get caught up in the cheer-leading and guiding role that I forget to be a lover. I hold up her jackets, so she can slide her arms in. That’s what I do for her. She waits in front of doors, until I open it. It is my honor. I say I forget the lover role, because it’s not my role. It belongs to someone else. Best I know. We don’t talk about it remember. But I will say, that pretty blue-eyed mothefucker’s picture is still the back ground of her phone. My skin crawls a bit when I see it. I want to read those messages so bad. Fly on the wall, wouldn’t even please me. I want so desperately to know what they talk about. My existence to him, probably stops short of the touching, kissing, and sleep fucking. As does his. All I can say is it must be a nightmare to juggle those feelings and all I can do is not make it worst by making her talk about things she isn’t ready to talk about. How chivalrous of me? I figure the worst has already happened. I feel less sad and more annoyed by the departures and unknowns. It’s beginning to disgust me. I can push for the answers that I, either will have earned by force, or to my displeasure. So, I do nothing. I am still me. I am still planning our future. I am still hoping. I hate it. But a watched pot doesn’t boil… Or something like that.
Vaughntastic 