Finding the Keys

A couple months ago I mentioned I would be writing and posting some short fiction on here instead of constantly talking about myself. This is the first piece. 

We used to be so in love. I cringe at the actual words articulating themselves in my brain. How many heroes or heroines of melodramas have uttered those words while sappy violin music swelled underneath? But there’s not another way to say it.  At the same time, the enormity of that statement hits me in the gut and knocks the breath out of me. We used to be so in love, and right now, we are not. Are we? Am I?

The sheer mass of the love we found with one another was so much more than I had ever thought I’d experience with another human being. It felt as large as an aquatic tank that might comfortably hold two blue whales, perhaps two adult blue whales and a baby since they were so comfortable. We breathed it like the humidity of the jungle, a thicker air, but one we did not have to push hard to move in and out of our lungs.

I did not expect to ever marry. Or fall passionately in love. I was never attracted to the notion of losing oneself in passion. I’m so careful, so structured. Love throws everything into disorder, makes everything messy. I did not yearn for that. And if the idea had ever crossed my mind, I never would have expected that you would be the one I’d fall for. You were just a funny creative type that was nice to be around. You were fun and different. And in your company I felt smart and effortlessly attractive. You made me laugh in a way I never had before. I forgot myself and would fall into a deep well of laughter. The somber girl was somber less and less of the time. I kept telling myself I was not serious about us. About you. But then one day I knew I was lying when I said that. And I knew I was only at my best if you were there. Which was not easy to acknowledge. But finally, I gave in and dove into that deep blue tank.

It should not have worked. I’m careful, responsible, structured. You make up musicals with multiple characters set in distant lands while we’re walking down the sidewalk. I normally, keep a tight rein on my emotions. You indulge your writerly moods of depression and euphoria and boredom, sometimes within the same half-hour. You are spontaneous and gregarious. I’m reserved and often times, unwavering. It should not have worked, you and me, being a single unit. Being married. I remember losing my keys one morning and as my panic began to climb higher, you brought out a pen and pad and investigated the Case of the Missing Keys! When was the last time I remember seeing them? Did they say anything to me? Did they give me any indication as to their mental state? Did I suspect suicide or foul play? At first I was so annoyed. I had to get to work, this was no time to play around! But each place we checked elevated the game. New clues, new leads. Until I stopped, and not knowing whether I wanted to be right or wrong, opened the front door to find them still in the lock. You erupted into exultation and proclamations that I was the “Greatest Detective on the Force”.

“No, seriously,” you said, your voice husky, “you’re genius is turning me on right now. I feel I have no other option than to take you to bed in a manly way.”

“I’m already late for work!”

“So you’ll be a little later,” you whispered, lips on my neck, hands tracing familiar lines over my curves. I wanted to stay.

But I left.

I left knowing that had the situation been reversed, I would have been furious at you. Berating you for not keeping up with your stuff and, had we found your keys in the front door, exploding in a panicked fury for leaving us so vulnerable. Someone could have killed us in our sleep! Or robbed or beaten us or anything!!! I would have made you feel stupid and useless, or tried to. And you made me feel sexy and smart. And I loved you for it. And maybe, although I did not realize it then, resented you for it. Resented you for being a better person than I.

It’s been years since we have solved any cases together.

I supported your writing with the saintliness of a martyr and did my best to make sure you remembered my sacrifices. Forbearing with patience the “un-structuredness” of your profession. Until there was less patience and mostly reminding. (A Doctor Who marathon is not considered research, I don’t care who wrote the episodes!)  Criticizing, nit-picking. (If you're going to be home all day, the LEAST you could do is keep the kitchen clean! Are you wearing the same pajamas from yesterday??) Even when you found some modest success, getting published, began teaching at the university, it was like I could not give in. I could not return from the moral high ground of being traditionally successful. I rebuffed your advances and worked late and avoided you.

And we stopped talking. Stopped breathing that delicious thick air. And I no longer feel like the best version of myself.

I had a dream last night that I was sitting on the patio in the moonlight.  In the quiet. When suddenly a huge snake, with a head the size of a greeting card appeared. Hissing, menacing, coming for me. Terrified,  I climbed onto the rickety metal table and screamed your name. Very low and very close, I heard you say, “I’m here.”

The snake was still hissing and darting at me. Tears of deep fright spilling down my face, I dared to look away from it to make sure you were there. “I’m afraid,” I said simply. Your eyes were dark and your jaw was set.

“I know,” you said without taking your eyes off the danger. “But it’s all going to be ok. I promise.” Suddenly you sprang toward the huge python. You held a shovel or other garden tool I hadn’t noticed before, and with a violence that startled me, you hacked at the snake. The muscles in your arms and back pulled at the seams of your shirt as you brought the weapon down on the animal again and again and again, well beyond it’s obvious death. Your ferocity wasn’t from fear, I realized. It was rage. Rage that something would dare to attack me. Finally, you stopped and dropped the shovel. You turned to me, breathless. And as you reached for me... I woke up.

Tonight, sitting at a red light on my way home, the memory of that dream stirred up memories of our first summer together. Your smiles, my smiles. The way you would take my hand without thinking about it. The way you said my name.  How your chest felt under my ear. Your smell. The most comfortable deep silences I had ever known.

But now we sit on the couch watching TV and not talking. And the silences are not comfortable. And we don’t touch. And I’m terrified I’m too late in realizing what I have done. I have distanced myself from you and then been hurt that you don’t want me anymore. You certainly don’t need me anymore. And in this moment, I realize that THAT was what I have been scared of all along. That you may have never needed me, but that I always desperately needed you. That I still do.

I’m in bed first but not asleep. After an hour or so, you climb into the other side, trying not to disturb me. You shuffle for a minute to get comfortable and then fall silent. But the silence is wrong. We are both so awake! I know it! Awake and trapped. How many times have I snapped at you for waking me when you come to bed? A natural one to toss and turn, you used to take several minutes to find your most comfortable position, often trying to get tangled up with me.  What unnatural control it must take now for you to lie still after a few seconds. I never noticed that before. How long have you been doing that?

The tears start and I can’t stop them. They are silent, however, so you don’t move. But I’m desperate and so somewhere, here in the dark, I find the courage to move toward you, inch by inch, across our giant bed. I tentatively touch your back but then my reach to wrap my arm around your waist and I bury my face in your back.  Through quiet sobs I whisper your name. Your hand falls on mine.

“I’m here,” you say quietly, but clearly. You turn toward me and your hand goes to my face. Your thumb finds a tear and banishes it with a flick. “Oh, love,” you whisper in my ear, “I’m here.”