She sat on a lawn chair, the plastic making her back ache, and wished she could put a cigarette between her lips. An ice cold beer would have been nice too, but those luxuries were beyond her at this moment. They were beyond her for the next six months or so, after which this little alien inside her uterus would eject itself out and away, and allow her to desecrate her inner temple once again. How had this happened to her? She smiled to herself, as she knew exactly how it had happened. Sometimes obedience wasn’t overrated, she thought to herself. Maybe the olden days had it right – discipline, culture, tradition, order. She had all of those, and then she lost them, and now she was nowhere. Maybe she was in limbo, on the same plane as tiny little aborted arms and legs and souls floating around, wanted neither here nor there. She sighed and sipped her water, her eyes glazing over as she thought of him, the reason behind all this mess.
He was bigger than her and that was her weakness. He dominated rooms, shoulders squared, back straight, and that made her swoon. It ignited fires under her skin until she burned both inside and out, and the flush on her cheeks, on her chest, spoke of the meeting of hormones and passion. He could pick her up with ease, and he often used to, and she loved the simple joy of it all. It was the unexpected, the surprise in the moment, the mixture of fear and exhilaration. It was as if he was born knowing how to push her buttons, both literally and metaphorically. What got her most was that he was quick enough to banter with her, teasing her, using lines that would allow jolts of pleasure to erupt from places that were better left unsaid.
What was it about him? What was it about him that had made her leave everything behind? She couldn’t claim insanity because she knew exactly what she was getting into. She knew the moment she took off her shirt for him, eyes never leaving his, and she knew the moment he kissed her ankle, and she knew the moment when he held her hair and let it run across his fingers. She knew there was no going back now – the deed had been committed, and it wasn’t just sex. Oh how she wished it was just sex, but it wasn’t just the act - it was symbolism of the act, representing everything she was leaving behind. Her family, her religion, her values, her friends – sisters, mothers, fathers, uncles, respect, value, future, career, everything. She saw it flash before her eyes as he kissed her that first time, but she let it go by. She had put a toe over the line, and now the sheer magnetism of chaos beyond her world beckoned to her, and she let it draw her in, willingly entering the lion’s den.
She was with him for three months before she got pregnant. And she was going to keep the kid. That much was clear in her head – if everyone abandoned her, she would never abandon her child. She would love her fiercely, her being a preference, but having a him wouldn’t matter too much either. Not that there was anybody who cared anymore, really. She had kept her man away from her parents until she found out she was with child. They were not happy, but they were not angry, which surprised her. They were disappointed, and that was worse than any other feeling in the world. They were not malicious in their dealings with her, and for all that could be said about their traditionalism and conservativeness, she knew that it was out of love for her and for her success that they had worked so hard to make her a good girl. But she wasn’t good, and worst of all, she didn’t want to be good, and that was the clincher for her relationship with them. They begged her not to go with him, they said that they would help raise her child, they said that they could help her continue to get her degree, that raising a child was infinitely more difficult than she could imagine, and she loved them for this. But she knew that living with them would just give them more room for jibes and guilt trips than she could handle. Gathering her belongings was the most difficult thing for her to do, because now every single object held a history, her history. Walking to the car, she glanced once again at the house, and a fondness overtook her heart for in there resided twenty-one years of her life and twenty-one years of her love. She didn’t cry then, but in his basement apartment that night, she wept bitterly on a very unfamiliar smelling pillow.
As she thought of how difficult it was to walk away from home, and how much she missed the comfort of her mother, and the arms of her little sister, bitterness welled up in the back of her throat, and no matter how much she swallowed, it wouldn’t let her be. The backyard door opening behind her drew her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“Where the fuck were you?” she asked through her teeth. A part of her was surprised at this sudden anger emanating from within her, an anger so powerful that she wanted to punch his face to a bloody pulp. The other part of her wanted him to hold her while she screamed and screamed into his chest, washing his shirt with tears born of bitter frustration. He looked at her, a tiredness written around his eyes, smelling like paint as usual. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she drew back. Her hands were shaking, and she got up and began pacing around the tiny yard, overgrown with weeds.
“Overtime,” he stated, flatly.
“Fuck you.”
“Yes. Fuck me.” He walked back inside and came out with a beer, opening it with his hand.
She looked at him, her eyes welling with angry tears, as he just sat there, taking a long sip, and as each second passed a rising fury overtook her bones. “Fuck you. Fuck you and your cock. Fuck you and everything you made me do. Fuck you. Fuck you!” And before she knew it, she was sobbing, chest heaving. Her tears were warm as they fell from her chin onto her chest, her arms, and she fell to her knees against the fence. Her chin quivered as sobs uncontrollably emerged from the center of her being. He sat there blankly, watching her for a few seconds.
He then got up, slowly, and sat down beside her. She looked at him, and in her gaze there was only despair as tears continually fell one after another, almost steady in their rhythm. He made her sit down, and wrapped one of his great big legs around hers. He wiped the salty mixture of tears and mucus off her face with his hand, and he did it again as each new stream made their across the terrain – her own personal windshield wiper.
“Want some?” he asked her after she had calmed down, holding out the bottle to her, and just that image of him with her snot on his hand, holding out his drink, smelling like paint and sweat, breathing endurance and patience, embalmed her soul. She took his arm and kissed his bicep, his shoulder, his neck. They sat there and let the day pass by them.
“I hate my life,” she said, her voice coming out hoarser than she expected.
“I love you.”
“I know, I know you do. Sometimes I wish I had never met you.”
He looked at her, and she looked at him, and she knew he felt exactly the same way. What was it about human beings that made them such drama queens? Instead of making life easier, marrying the good boy, getting the steady job, they ran away with people all wrong for them. They preferred to lose money, respect, sanity, survived hunger, anguish, despair just for – for what exactly? Was this love? Or was this just anti-boredom?
He reached over and caressed her slightly swollen belly. “We’ll love her to death, won’t we?” he asked, and despite herself, she smiled because he had always wanted a boy.
.JPG)