|
The Exquisite
Delectation
of Not Knowing
She
shops for groceries
every day after
work and prepares
mass quantities
of the soft
shapeless delights
he devoured
as a child—tuna
casserole, macaroni
and cheese,
meatloaf and
mashed potatoes,
banana custard,
rice pudding.
In
bed, he sucks
hard on her
nipples, as
if he expects
milk or martinis
to flow. All
he ever wanted
was someone
to fill him
up and make
him whole.
When
he’s done, her
breasts feel
like dried up
lemons and her
body an empty
shell. All
she’s ever heard
about is the
pleasure of
pleasing and
the need to
meet needs.
She
buffers his
world like it’s
a Fabergé egg.
No phone
calls that will
distress, no
bills that will
upset, no news
that will unnerve.
Her words
are as carefully
picked and finely
filleted as
a piece of fish:
no bones, no
spines, no scales
to catch in
the throat of
their perfect
life.
At
night, he burrows
between her
legs, as if
seeking a way
back into the
womb.
Every
day, she gently
pushes him toward
the light—toward
higher aspirations
and the Harvard
Five Foot Shelf,
the ladder of
success, the
Fortune 500
and the latest
styles.
When
she’s not around,
he bonds with
Playboy centerfolds
and six-packs
of beer.
She
curses where
he can’t hear.
He
cries where
she can’t see.
One
evening, on
her way home
from work, the
crowded subway
she’s riding
grinds to halt
between stations
and goes black.
As she
stands hanging
onto a strap
in the stuffy
darkness, shoehorned
in by restless
bodies, she
feels a hand
behind her begin
to play with
her hair. The
gesture is more
intimate than
a caress and
makes her want
to cry as she
remembers a
long-forgotten
incident from
her youth. She’d
sneaked out
of her parent’s
house to go
to a party where
she wasn’t supposed
to be: slow
music, low lights,
electricity
in the air and
a room full
of strangers,
ever so fascinating
in their unfamiliarity.
She danced
with a young
man she’d never
met, who had
soft hands and
a voice like
velvet when
he whispered
in her ear,
“Let’s go outside.”
Her mother
had warned her
about boys like
that, but all
he’d wanted
was to kiss
her and entangle
his fingers
in her long
red hair before
he bid her good
night and a
happy life and
slipped away.
Though
she can’t recall
his face and
doesn’t know
his name, she
clearly remembers
the cool moongleam
and the infinity
of unknown stars,
the mystery
of the moment
and the enchantment
of the unforeseen.
The
train suddenly shudders
and starts to roll again.
The lights blink on.
The hand is gone.
Her hair is alone.
The faces around her
are blank, betraying nothing.
The next stop is hers.
“Thank you,” she says
to whomever it was, then
disembarks and slowly walks
home. She stops at
the supermarket as usual,
but wanders up and down
the aisles in a daze, her
hand out of control and
reaching for unthinkable
things. She stares
at the choices in her cart
and is amazed.
When
she opens the door, he approaches
for the usual embrace but
they miss each other by
inches and proceed on in
opposite directions. She
doesn’t turn back. He
watches the kitchen swallow
her up. Everything
suddenly feels so empty,
it seems.
Her
clothes.
His
head.
This
place.
Her
face.
His
heart.
As
she unpacks the groceries,
she does a little dance.
He
hides in the den and cowers
in the dark.
Instead
of the oven door opening,
he hears the front door
close. She’s gone.
He wanders around
the apartment. It
looks strange and perilous,
an unexplored land. He
doesn’t know where she’s
going or if she’ll ever
return. He doesn’t
know whether he feels relieved
or grieved because he isn’t
sure of anything anymore.
He isn’t sure how
he feels about not being
sure, and finds that strangely
exciting.
On
the kitchen counter, the
food she has bought awaits
him like a farewell note.
Single Serving Size,
all the packages say, and
he doesn’t know whether
to laugh or to cry.
|