“So how did it go last night? I never got around to asking
you earlier.”
Washing dishes. “I… it went OK. I guess.”
“OK?”
“No,” she laughs. Turning off faucet. “It went awful. Or
maybe bad. Maybe some things were good.” Thinks about the events. “No. Pretty
bad.” Moves to the living room. Sits down on the couch.
Follows. “Oh. I’m sorry. God what happened? Did he just act
like an ass?”
“No, well… god I don’t know, it’s just really… bad… the
whole night was just really… bad. I mean… first of all it wasn’t all him, but
yeah he wasn’t helping things.”
“Jesus this sounds awful.”
“It was, “ nodding her head. “It was pretty awful.”
“So… what happened? Or would you rather talk about something
else?”
“No. I should talk about this. It’s just that you know him
and I don’t want you to think differently about him. He’s not a bad guy. I like
him. I really do. I was kind of hoping he’d turn out to be a halfway decent
guy, you know, to be with.”
“Right.”
“And not that he’s not. It’s just,” sighs. Drinks. “I… OK.
First off, like I said, it wasn’t all his fault. I’ve got the deadline at work,
and then all that bullshit with the car accident and the medical bills I have
to pay and going to court because that asshole won’t just pay… and I have all
this stress building up inside… and I think I have to go to the doctor’s
because this stress is screwing up my cycle and I’m off by a few days, which
was one of the reasons I didn’t even want to go on this date with him, and I
had a headache, and nausea, and I just felt like shit…”
“God. I’m so sorry. So this wasn’t a good start.”
“No. Not at all. But I couldn’t call it off. I didn’t want
to come off like I didn’t want to see him. Like I wanted to see him. You know.”
“Yeah.”
“I was ready to take him home, willingly.”
“Right.”
“We talked about this.”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned.”
“So I couldn’t call it off. And I had all this other shit I
had to deal with. And… but so I got it together about an hour or so before we
were supposed to meet up—well like two hours. I showered, tried on about three
different outfits. I fucking stressed over whether or not to where shoes, or
those heels I showed you the other day—”
“The cute ones.”
“Right.”
“Yeah I like those.”
“And anyway, I finally pulled myself together and met him
over there. And things were going fine for a little while. You know. I told him
I wasn’t feeling well, but that I wanted to see him. And he was nice and funny
like usual. But then, like, we stayed a little longer, and he started ordering
more drinks, and he had like a salad, or hadn’t eaten all day he said, I don’t
remember the specifics… or both… and then we leave the restaurant and I want to
call it a night because I’m feeling like shit again because I was having these
awful fucking cramps, but he wanted to go get some more drinks, so I went, and
he drank more, and then I really wanted to go, but then he wanted to dance,
and…” sighs.
“Did you tell him you weren’t feeling good?”
“Yeah. A lot. Like multiple times: at the restaurant, when
he was practically dragging me down Vermont, when he ordered me shots, when he
begged me to dance with him.”
“God.”
“Yeah. Because I love it when a guy begs for anything. And I
felt awful with the cramping, the last goddamn thing I wanted to do was go get
shoved around and deal with his drunk, uncoordinated gesticulating—which is
exactly what it was.”
“Oh no.”
“One song. I told him one song. And then I tried to leave,
but he wanted me to stay, so I told him I felt sick, and he dragged me over the
hallway where the bathrooms were and pulled out cocaine.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s. So. Crazy. I can’t believe that.”
“Did you know?”
“No. I mean I knew he did. And he joked about it all the
time. But I didn’t think like he did it like that.”
“Yeah.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“I don’t fucking do drugs, I told him. I mean, you know, I
take something to calm me down when I can, but I don’t do that. And I certainly
don’t take bumps in a fucking hallway of some bar.” Rubbing her head, “I need
my Diazepam.” Gets up. Looks around.
“What did you do when he did that?”
Finding purse. “I told him no. Thanks, but no. And then told
him again I wasn’t feeling well and I needed to go home.” Opens container.
Empty. “Shit.”
“And what he say?”
Turns. “And so he said we should go back to my place.”
Silence. Then, “What?”
“Yeah.”
“He invited himself over?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ.”
“But here’s the shitty thing, I let him.” Sitting back down.
“W—wait, what? Why?”
“I don’t know. I felt bad. He at least had to sober up.”
“Well… so what happened then? Did you two…?”
Shrugs. “I let him come over. He did. We made out on the
couch. He was really too drunk to do anything else. Not that he didn’t try.”
Shaking head.
“Yeah. He tried to go down on me, but that was just bad.”
“Really? It was at least nice of him to try. Right?”
“But he was really bad at it.”
“Really? I heard otherwise. At least from him, I heard.”
“Yeah. Well. It may have been because how much he drank or
that I felt awful in general, and then you throw in all the other shit.”
Exhales. Drinks. “I mean I was barely wet. And he was doing everything wrong.
It was like he knew how to do it, but he just was completely terrible with the
way he did it. Like he had no patience or concept that I’m not a fucking light
switch.”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah.”
“So… then what happened?”
“I just told him to stop. I told him it wasn’t him, but that
I wasn’t feeling well.”
“And that was it?”
“Well then I tried to suck him off, but… oh this is awful…”
“What?”
“He was too drunk to even… you know…”
Eyes widen. “Wow.”
“Yeah. It was just bad.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He passed out.”
“What?”
“I know.”
“Well did he say anything in the morning?”
Shrugs. “Not really. He pissed all over my toilet and walked
out, giving me a thumbs-up before he left. He was still clearly a little drunk.”
Mouth open. “Oh wow… well has he at least called you?”
“He texted me something about being busy today.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“This sounds awful.”
“I know. I know it does. But things were going so well… and
then it just got all fucked up.”
“I’m sorry.”
Exhales. “I should have just told him I was not feeling good
and canceled the date.”
“But him acting that way—”
“No I know. It’s just,” sighs. “It’s nothing. I’ve just…
need to think about it some more. He’s not a bad guy. I really do like him. Had
I been in a better mood this would have probably gone completely different.
Maybe he was really anxious, you know? Do you think that might be what it was?”
“Uhm… I don’t know… I mean… I… I just… not sure.”
“Me neither. Fuck.” Walks to the other side of the room. “And
things were going so well up until three shitty weeks ago. Damnit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s fine. I’ll get over it. I’m just sick of talking
about it right now. I’ve thought about it since I’ve been up and now I’m just
really exhausted, and anxious, and don’t want to think about it anymore. I
don’t want to have to think about myself for a little while.”
“I understand.”
Takes a sip. Moves to kitchen. “What about you? Did you and
Jake have a good time at Nova?”
“Yeah.”
Starting to wash dishes. “That’s good.”
Picking nails. “Yeah, it was fun. We hadn’t seen one another
in a week. So it was nice to be back with him. See him. I missed him.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah,” she sighs.
Comes back into the room. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Sitting down. “No come on. I said my thing. You do yours.
What’s up?”
“It’s just the same thing with Jake.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s always the same thing with him. He’s so… fixated on
everything being a certain way… he always wants me to… be happy… and that’s
great… but… I feel bad… I feel bad about it. I feel bad about him wanting to
make me feel happy all the time. And that confuses the hell out of me.”
Nods. “Yeah.”
“And, and I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have to feel bad about
him wanting to make me feel good, but it’s not the same. It’s like a compulsion
almost with him. It’s like he’s just doing it out of habit rather than that’s
because what he or I really want him to do.” Sighs. “I don’t know. Does that
even make sense?”
“Yes. To me at least.”
“Well at least I’m not the only one then.”
“No, it makes a lot of sense to me.”
“It’s like I’ve ceased being me, to him. Like I’m just some
woman who needs to be satisfied all the time. He has to pay for the meals. He
has to call me. He has to be the first to go down on me. He has to come last.
He can never do anything that might seem… I don’t know… offensive. It’s so… annoying. And I know he’s not trying to be like
that. I know he’s legitimately trying to make things great because he really
likes me and being with me. But… I can’t help but feel like a fucking thing
with him. Like here’s Ida the Woman who must be fed dinner and taken to movies
and she has to be told everything she wears she looks great in and that she
always looks great even when she obviously looks like shit and feels like shit
and doesn’t need to hear the lies and she needs to approve the kissing and sex
messages and must give approval every time before she has her clothes taken off
in an orderly fashion, one at a time: first shirt, then pants, then bra, then
panties: and then she needs to be gone down on, and—whatever you get it. I’m
just tired of that. I just… you know it wouldn’t bother me at all if he just
came over to my apartment without asking, ripped my clothes off me, bent me
over the table and just fucked me ‘til he
came. That would be fine with me. Just do something, you know… just… I don’t
know… choke me!”
“What?”
“Yeah maybe not that. But close. You know something like
that. Do something. God it’s so formulaic with him. I hate it. It’s not mutual.
It’s very… one-sided.”
“Yeah.” Gets up. “I know what you mean.” Moves to kitchen.
“It’s all very one-sided.” Starts taking clean plates from the dry rack and
washing again. “Very one-sided.”
“I don’t know if that gets through to him, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I feel like… like he believes he is doing everything
right… but I… it’s not that simple… and then when I try to tell him, or
explain, he just gets so frustrated and confused. He looks at me like I’m
betraying everything he’s ever known… like women across the world… hundreds of
years of equality… like I just asked him to end women’s suffragette or
something… I don’t know.”
Brief laugh. “I doubt that.”
“But kinda.”
“Really?”
Moves to kitchen. “Yeah. I just don’t know what to do some
times with him.”
Scrubbing vigorously. “Yeah.”
Confused. “Didn’t you already clean those?”
“What?” Looking down. “Oh… ha… yeah… god I’ve turned into my
mother.” Setting dishes back on rack. Taking off gloves. “Ugh… my mother… did I
tell you about the conversation we had this week?”
“No. What?”
“Conversation. It was more of a lecture. A bitter
remonstration.”
Remonstration?
“Uh-huh.”
“She calls me up and starts immediately complaining about
how I never call her.” Starts picking at nonexistent food on plates. “How I’m
her only child. The only child she ever brought into this world and that I’m
all she has left and that I never call her. Everyone has left her and I never
call her. Yeah well, Mom, maybe if you weren’t such a goddamn tyrant to me,
maybe things would be a little different. But no.” Grabs glass. Pours soap.
Begins scrubbing. “No you didn’t. Too busy trying to find another husband with
that weight tied to you constantly.
That barnacle you wished never
happened, clinging 24/7. God.” Washes glass. “I’m sorry. You’ve heard this all
before.”
“No. Vent.”
“She just goes on and on about how I don’t love her and I
never call her and all she has ever done is bend over backwards and given up
everything for me. The least I could do is call her once a week and talk to
her. She’s all alone in her house and she’s got no one. The dog ran away. The cat
hides. None of the neighbors care for her. Their children are terrible. All the
interesting mothers have jobs and she’s too old for the stay-at-home ones. And
it’s all just bullshit I’ve heard a thousand times and I’m sick of it. I told
her that. I told her I’m sick of listening to her complaints because nothing is
ever good enough for her because she doesn’t know what the hell she wants in
life because she’s lost and no one ever told her she could have any direction.
And I just get so exhausted with her and I can’t bear to speak with her for
more than five minutes at a time, and that’s why I don’t call, and that’s why I
don’t come ‘home’ for the holidays, and that’s why I moved to the other side of
the country, and she still can’t seem to get a grasp of the obvious. I did
exactly what she wanted when I was old enough—I left her alone. And now… now
that’s not good enough either. She resents me. She resents everyone because,
ultimately, she resents herself. She resents herself because she was the
mother, she was the wife, she had the apron, the ironing board, the Tupperware,
the smile, all that, she had it all, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Who knows
what she wanted… or wants. Nothing. She wants what she can’t have. That’s what
she wants.”
“And… you told her all this?”
“More or less.”
“And did she say anything?”
“Oh the same usual bitter bullshit.” Scrubbing. “How could I
ever know? How could I possibly know what it was like? I don’t have any
children. And I don’t have any children because I don’t have a husband. And I
don’t have a husband because I chased Travis away. And he left me because I am
unlovable—or something awful to that effect. When am I going to find a husband
and be in a committed relationship with someone and have a child and then
realize just how difficult it is? When am I going to put myself in that
situation and then tell her how awful she is when I then know? I’ve got no
idea. Not one clue of what it’s like to be a real woman. None of my generation knows what it’s like to be a real
woman. Everyone’s just so high on standards with no perception of what it means
to be a real person. Everyone’s so fake.” Washing suds from glass. Drying it.
Shaking head. “God.”
“Yeah,” nodding head. “Yeah, I know.” Filling glass with
wine. “She’s just an awful human being, who just happens to be my mother. I’ll
get over it.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Finishes glass. Pours. “I’ll get over it. I don’t hate her.
I want to. It be a lot easier for me to just hate her. I’m getting there in
certain areas. But I can’t. Not fully… no. Never. I can’t… it’s not her fault,
not entirely. But just once… just once I’d like her to apologize… just once I’d
like her to put herself in my place and understand me for… for five minutes.”
Drinks a little. “I don’t hate her. I don’t.” Drinks some more. “She… just
makes it very difficult to love her… that’s all.”
“Yeah.”
“But whatever,” forces a smile. “I’ll get over it. I’ll move
on. I’ll be patient. Fuck… what other option do I have, right?”
Eyebrows rise. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right.”
Sighs. “I’m done.” Moves to the living room. Sits back down
on the couch. Props feet up on the coffee table.
Follows. Sits on couch. Crosses legs.
Silence.
“So… what now… what do you want to do now?”
“Proceed with caution.”
