It was the simplest little sentence, just five words. She said them to him every night, in her head but this time she actually said the words out loud and hoped that he would hear them and do what they said-stay.
He did not stay. He did what he had been doing for almost every night of the last two months. He walked out the door. He was going to a bar. The first time he did it he told her he was going to a bar. Since then, she had not bothered to ask him. She knew.
Okay, maybe one night or the other, he had gone to a movie instead, a movie she didn’t want to see. It was getting more and more that way. They never seemed to agree on anything.
So, this night, he came home and went right to the bathroom, came back, and sat down in the big plush red chair at the non-window end of the living room. And he was silent. After five years of marriage, she had come to know this awful silence of his. It meant he was really angry, so angry he couldn’t talk. She would have preferred that he scream at her.
When he finally spoke, it was only to say:
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
“What plans would I have?” she replied.
“Oh, a big dinner party, a special social engagement. Hell damn, I don’t know. What do you do with your goddamned life anyway?”
“I have no plans.”
“Fine. I’m going out.”
“I want you to stay.”
He got up and walked to the door, opened it, went out, and closed the door behind him. That was it.
Now she sat in the big plush chair and thought about the five years.
Maybe it had been good for them for the first year. Back then they went to a lot of movies together at night. He took her to all the foreign films she had never seen and explained them to her.
She occasionally ventured an opinion about a film but he had a tendency to shoot down her observations. One time they saw a French film that involved two couples and a writer who was manipulating the two couple’s actions because they were characters in a novel he was writing. But the couples were also based on his family. She remarked that the movie was about the creative process and he retorted that it was about having preconceived notions about what was actually happening.
She argued that her interpretation of the movie was valid and he told her she had a lot to learn about life and movies.
Then it seemed like he was taking her to the movies so they wouldn’t have to have conversations. Not all of the movies they went to were good; some of them were silly horror films and action films. Eventually she began to beg off, saying that there were things on TV she wanted to see and books she could read. He went to the movies by himself and then gradually, the going to bars started.
And she knew what that really was about.
At least what this gave her was a night to herself. She was alone and unafraid to be alone in the house. She could do anything she wanted to do.
“Yes,” she said aloud to no one. “I can do anything.” For the moment, that meant that she washed the dishes. But then she stopped in the middle of scrubbing a plate and put it in the dishwasher half scrubbed.
Hell, screw the dishes. Screw the housework. Let the house get dusty and greasy. It was worthy of who came home to it.
She heard a screech of brakes but she knew it wasn’t him. They lived in the last house on a street that then swerved into a sort of highway. Some cars sped through the last light (a few doors to the north of their house) so they could really take off once they were on the road.
She decided to take a bath. Usually, she took showers. Tonight, she would take a bath and bask in her solitude. It would be like going to a spa.
She ran the water and sprinkled some bubble bath into the tub. Then she lay for about a half hour in the bubbles. She could have played some music but she preferred the silence, the perfect aloneness.
Out of the tub, she wrapped herself in a big towel, paying attention to every second of softness. Then it was scented bath powder and cologne. None of this had been given to her by him. He never sprung for presents like that. Friends gave her fragrances; a female cousin had even sent her some Opium once.
She wanted to pretend that a special lover had given her the fragrances but hell, screw, it was fine the way it was. It still made her feel special and clean.
Now, in her bedroom, she picked out a robe to wear. Again, a present from a female friend. A black lace negligee. A garment her husband never saw her wear because he wasn’t interested in such garments when they clothed the likes of her.
And also, to go with the negligee, old-fashioned gold sling backed high heeled shoes, from a thrift shop a few years back.
And now the red lipstick and the blue eye shadow and the black eyeliner and mascara. One would think she was going out. But it was only for herself. It made her feel better.
She stood in the living room. Now was the time to put some music on. She chose an album with some movie scores, some soft pop stuff that was as close to jazz as they had in their collection.
And now was the time for her to pour herself a drink. Yes, they still had some bottles in the liquor cabinet. He went out to drink because there was more than just drink out there. In here there was just some Scotch (which she did not especially care for) and some cherry brandy. Yum. That was what she wanted. He kept that for cocktails, for guests. Hell, she felt like a guest in her own home, didn’t she? She poured herself a tiny shot glass full of brandy and drank it down in one gulp.
And now she was ready.
She opened the door and stepped out into the night. The road was dark, occasionally lit up by the headlights of a passing car. A car zoomed past her too quickly. She would have to wait for the next one.
She stationed herself at the side of the road as close to the road as she could without being run over. Another car was coming. As it neared, she got ready. She put her hands on the edges of her negligee.
The headlights caught her as she flung the negligee open and exposed her nakedness to the car.
She saw the driver go unsteady and almost go off the road-almost. He somehow got hold of himself and drove on—but wow, didn’t he almost go off? Wow.
I’ll do that again, she thought.
Another car, coming closer. Fling it open. Hold it wide open. Let the lights glide over her breasts and belly like someone touching them.
Screech and slow down. The driver shouted “Are you crazy?” and put his foot on the brakes and drove on.
Two more cars. They didn’t stop. Maybe the drivers were women. Or just not interested.
Ah, here was another one. He came to a screeching stop. He stared for a second. She ran into the house, laughing. She heard him drive away. Too bad! Fooled you!
And then she was out there again. She had found a new pastime. I’ll keep doing it, she thought. This is fun.
I’ll keep doing it and maybe one night the driver coming home…
© 2024 Lynne Bronstein
