After she got off the phone, after his terrible confession,
she sat for a while.
Her hands were shaking horribly, as they had been since
he’d begun telling her.
Just by his tone, she had known what was coming, and her
body had begun quaking just a bit, as her mind stood still.
And now she cried. Of course she did, and for a long time.
The words escaping from her mouth were only for herself
and the sky, but they poured out none the less.
She cried so much she wondered if the sobs would ever leave,
but of course they did. They washed out with the rain, and
then the journal came out.
Pages of rants, cries, whys, how could hes, how will it evers,
and so forth. For pages…
Not that she was not experienced at these sorts of things.
On the contrary, she had been married to what had turned
out to be a sex addict, although she was too naiive to know
it at the time.
She thought he was just figuring himself out, in that cute little
sixties way, and she being in the Hippie mode, thought it was
healthy to let him. She had trusted him implicitly.
They were going to be completely honest with eachother…
Although actually it was the seventies, and not quite as
The worst part about it was not the sex with others…
it was the lies and hiding for a month, and then the confessions,
the tears, and then realizing that a month had gone by with
his hiding it and lying, and eventually it just made her mad…
….Mad…as in Crazy. Eventually All Trust was Destroyed.
Well, at least he told me, she thought….and quickly.
But I’m not there, and I don’t know when I will be, and he’s
way to cute and crazy Not to stray once in a while, even when
I Am there. That Latin men thing. Male privilege.
The ole double standards thing, which is one of the two
worst things ever, as far as she was concerned.
The other is being taken for granted.
They sort of go hand in hand, don’t they.
It was 5 or 6 when the phone rang, insistently dragging her
out of her solitary sad, forcing her to clear her throat,
put on the smile voice, and answer.
“Well… do you have anything you wanna say to me?”
the Voice came.
“Not really. I guess that depends on what you have to say to me…”
“I’m not doing too well…. I drank almost a whole bottle” …
…she knew this meant scotch, his favorite imbibement.
“I can’t sleep, I’m not feeling too good about myself,” he continued,
“and I want to apologize.”
“What are you apologizing for?” she ventured, honestly unsure
of where he was at in all of this.
“For breaking our agreement to eachother. I knew it was wrong
when I was doing it. It meant nothing. There is no relationship,
no time spent together, only sex.”
“Does she know about me?” she now wondered, as she really
didn’t know this side of him, nor how he behaved in these times.
“Yes, she knows about you, of course, what do you think?
I’m not a scoundrel. I’m not going to tremble before you.
I’m not going to sweat…. well….
this is not a video phone, so if I do sweat you won’t know…”
Well…she thought…. he’s doing pretty well so far. Saying
the right things anyway. It’s just the trust thing. The not
knowing what was true, and what would be true, especially
at this distance. No eyes to peer into.
The conversation closed on a neutral level, he having said
what he needed to say, she unable to move forward, let go,
believe again, but now at least in a place where she could
see beyond the darkness, the light out there at the end of that
terrible tunnel beginning to grow just a little….