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The words I Love You entered our vernacular after a month of dating, and now, a year
after getting married, they seem to have disappeared, and I am
left not knowing how to communicate with my wife. It’s not that
we don’t talk. She asks me how my day was, and I return the favor.
On Sunday mornings, she asks for the crossword. Occasionally,
we argue about her sister, Candace, who seems to have permanently
moved in with us. But we don’t really talk. We only say the things
we think we are supposed to say. Late at night, when she thinks
I’m sleeping, my wife will stand on the balcony of our apartment
chain smoking, and crying or staring up at the stars. I’ll stand
in the shadows of the curtains, with a sheet wrapped around me,
staring at her, wondering what she’s thinking. Sometimes, I start
to open the door, move towards her, but something always holds
me back, because she looks at once so sorrowful and so peaceful
in these moments, that I know that they are meant to be solitary.
Ursula and I met during law school, and although we are complete
opposites, I have always been drawn to her. Perhaps it’s the
current of irresponsibility that touches everything in her life,
or the way she laughs, or the way she always carries a tin of
Altoids to hide the fact that she can’t quit smoking although
she has been trying for three years. More than anything, she
reminds me of how tangible and messy and wonderful life can be.
I’m the first to admit that I’m an overly conventional person.
I believe that rules exist for a reason and I find a value in
conducting myself responsibly. I enjoy ironing, because it relaxes
me, and serves a decent purpose. I never make hasty decisions
because I don’t believe in regrets. Before proposing to Ursula,
I took a long time to actually go through with it. I had the
ring hidden in the back of my sock drawer for six months. I weighed
the pros and cons of spending the rest of my life with this woman,
and when all was said and done, I knew marrying her would be a
decision I could never regret.
Ursula is staring at me right now, trying to figure out what I’m
thinking. I smile at her, and reach across the table. She looks
down at my hand and pauses, before meeting me halfway. Slowly,
she smiles back, and we sit in silence, until she asks me what
I’m planning on ordering.
“Filet mignon with roasted portabella mushrooms,” I say.
“Good choice,” she replies, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic
or not.
“And you?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I was thinking lobster tails and veal
marsala and the chicken piccata.”
My jaw clenches, but I nod and smile wider. She does that, ordering
two or three entrees, just in case she’s not satisfied with one
or more. She likes options. And so do I, but three entrees seems
a bit extravagant. We aren’t eating at a Chinese restaurant where
we can fill the table with steaming dishes, our chopsticks meeting
over chop suey and beef and broccoli. But I say nothing, because
when I married her, I also married her many quirks.
When our food arrives, Ursula immediately pushes the chicken
piccata away.
“What’s wrong with it?”
She shrugs. “I don’t like the way it looks.”
I lean forward, carefully inspecting the dish. “How so?”
“Not enough color.”
I arch an eyebrow as I eye the pale veal practically quivering
on her plate in a pool of equally pale marsala wine sauce. “I
see. Well, hopefully the lobster and veal will be more colorful
to your lovely eyes.”
Her cheeks redden slightly, and I can’t help but notice that they
are similar in hue to the lobster tails, four of them, artfully
placed along an oval plate. We eat in silence. Although the
restaurant is crowded, it feels like the place is so quiet, that
I can hear her chewing, the sound of the linen napkin gliding
back and forth across her lips. Sometimes, silence is deafening.
At home, I stand in the bathroom, plucking my nose hairs. It’s
a chore, but I hate staring at my reflection in the mirror, only
to see the wispy blonde hairs waving from the air flowing through
my nostrils. It’s distracting. Ursula is sitting on the edge
of our bed, left leg crossed over right, watching me, an amused
expression on her face. In the next room, Candace is playing
the same U2 album that she has been playing for the past three
months. I hate U2. I didn’t before, but I do now. I’m not even
sure what a Joshua tree is.
“Why are you watching me,” I ask her, wincing as I pluck the last
hair, and begin wiping the counter clean.
“Because when I imagined things I’d see my husband doing, I imagined
watching him shave, take a piss, shower and whatnot. I never
thought I’d see him pluck nose hairs, so I’m absolutely fascinated
and repulsed at the same time.”
I frown, flicking a stray hair off the mirror. “Thanks. Glad
to know.”
She pats the bed and leans back. “Don’t be grumpy. Come get
naked with me.”
I arch an eyebrow and turn to face her. Her bathrobe has fallen
down her shoulders and she is naked, arm muscles taught and stretched
behind her. The shaft of light from the bathroom leaves half
her body in shadows, and there is something intriguing and erotic
about seeing her like this. Later, I am alone in bed, sweat cooling
against my skin. I can see the curves of Ursula’s body in the
sheets next to me, and its strange, but I feel her presence more
in these shadows than I have sitting right next to her lately.
I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the window. She is sitting on
the balcony, hugging her legs to her chest. I can only see one
side of her face, and it is streaked with tears. I place the
palm of my hand against the glass. And I stand, still.
I remember my childhood in sounds, not words, because my parent’s
relationship lacked a verbal vernacular. They were creatures
of silence and they communicated in an intricate way that made
up for all the thoughts and feelings that went unsaid. I remember
the sound of my mother rushing to finish dinner each evening before
my father came home, the way she would hum, how the humming would
get louder, the faster six o’clock approached, and the catch of
her breath as she heard him in the doorway. I remember my mother’s
laughter, low and husky, like whiskey pouring over ice as she
greeted my father. The hum of her sewing machine for hours on
end, and the sound of her left foot tapping against the wall as
she worked. I remember the sound of my father’s briefcase landing
against the hallway tiles and the way he cleared his throat to
let us know that he was home. I remember the sound of his voice
when he and my mother would dance to Frank Sinatra every night
before they went to sleep.
And I when I got older, I remember the sound of my father’s oxygen
cart, the wheels always in need of oil; the hiss of oxygen pouring
into his lungs hour after hour, the sound of his old Zippo lighter
clicking against his thigh as he longed for just one more cigarette.
And my mother, gently patting his back when he was attacked by
a coughing fit, or the way she would click her tongue when she
was worried about him, worried that sooner than later, she would
no longer hear his sounds. But I don’t remember the sounds of
their voices, because in my memory, my parents never spoke to
each other. It was as if day in and day out, they slid around
each other, only invisible words spoken between them. And now,
I think that’s why the silence growing between Ursula and I feels
familiar. But it is a familiarity I am uncomfortable with, because
in that silence I don’t hear the things I heard between my parents’
silences.
The next morning, Ursula ignores the alarm, but I jump out of
bed, pulling the sheets and blankets off her before getting ready.
After I’m dressed, I sit on the bed next to her adjusting my tie.
Getting the knot to look the way I want to is a skill I have yet
to acquire.
I pat her thighs. “Babe, it’s time to get up.”
Her arms stretch over her head, banging into the headboard. “Damnit,”
she grumbles.
I shake her again. “You’re going to be late.”
She’s quiet for a moment, lying perfectly still. Even the rise
and fall of her chest has stopped.
“I know you’re awake.”
“Fuck off,” she grumbles.
I sigh. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
Candace is already up, leaning into the open refrigerator, wearing
only boxers and a thin tank top.
“I see you’re already dressed for whatever it is you do all day.”
“Fuck off,” she says, pulling out the milk and an apple.
“That’s twice in one morning.”
“You’re off to a great start.”
“Whatever. Did you start the coffee?”
“Am I a maid?”
I bite my tongue, and begin making the coffee. The rhythm of
this ritual calms me, first the filter, two scoops of coffee,
neatly packed, warm water, setting out three mugs. Candace sits
on the counter, swinging her legs back and forth as she alternates
taking bites of her apple with drinking milk directly from the
carton. She’s pushing so many of my buttons that I choose to
tune her out rather than get riled up. As the coffee begins percolating,
Ursula stumbles into the kitchen, her blouse partially unbuttoned,
the hem of her skirt at a strange angle.
“What time is it?” she asks, her voice gravelly.
I look at my watch. “You should invest in one of these. Its
7:15.”
She falls into a chair at the kitchen table, leaning her forehead
against her arms. “I need a job where I can wake up after noon.”
“Janitors are always in demand.”
She raises her head only long enough to flash me a glare. “What
is your problem this morning?”
I fill our mugs with coffee and set one in front of her.
She kicks me lightly trying to reach up and ruffle my hair as
I step back. “Answer me.”
“Perhaps the better question is what was wrong with you last night?”
Ursula stares at me blankly. She doesn’t even blink. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
I take a sip of coffee, wincing at it burns my tongue. “Of course
you don’t.”
Candace waves her hands in the air. “I am in the room. Maybe
you could have your little tiff later.”
“Maybe you could just leave the room.”
“Don’t snap at my sister,” Ursula says.
“Are you married to her?”
Without waiting for her answer, I grab my briefcase, and adjust
my tie. I don’t even bother saying goodbye as I leave for work.
Neither does she. After about an hour at work, I am calm. There
is a reassuring and fashionable order to working as a lawyer for
an insurance company. Denial of coverage claims come to me, and
I decide whether or not to settle the matter or take it to court,
and as with most decisions in my life, I never settle, because
if I settle, I might regret. Day in and day out, I compare the
havoc of other peoples’ lives with the relative stability of mine.
It is almost comforting. Today, there are three folders on my
desk. A twenty-one year old kid in Florida who’s white 1996 Honda
Accord was stolen, but found less than a mile away, the inside
burned to a crisp. Even the CDs were still in the car, the plastic
deformed and fused with the char of the floor mats. The agent
investigating the case believes the kid was involved, something
about wanting a new car from his rich daddy.
Next, a woman whose jewels were stolen from her home, while she
and her husband were asleep. Nothing else reported stolen. And
my favorite of the day, a banker’s claim for the loss of his prize-winning
and purebred Irish Setter, who has run away to parts unknown.
I make a few phone calls, take some notes, and hand a pile of
paperwork to my assistant. I have to be in court in the afternoon,
so we discuss a few pre-trial motions. When he returns to his
desk, I begin clearing my desk of everything. I have a file cabinet
especially for my nameplate, Ursula’s picture, the calculator,
my calendar. This is another one of my rituals, before going
into court, cleaning my desk; an empty slate to think things over.
I briefly wonder what Ursula’s doing at work. Ironically enough,
she’s a divorce lawyer. I could never understand that choice,
getting so intimately involved in other people’s lives, watching
day in and day out the end of something that was supposed to last
forever and has dissolved into nothing. But she loves it. We
had a long conversation about it once, right after we had graduated
and were studying for our bar exams. It was late at night, and
we were the only two people in the law library. She was curled
up in an armchair and I was seated at a nearby desk, wondering
how she could possibly study sitting in such an odd position.
I distinctly remember what she was wearing; flannel pajama pants,
a neon yellow t-shirt, and a dirty fisherman’s hat pulled down
low. Visually offensive, but adorable nonetheless –a reminder
as to why she was good for me. I was wearing khakis and a Polo
shirt.
Fresh starts, she said. There’s always potential when something
ends. And that disturbed me, as I reminded her that when life
ends, that’s pretty permanent but she had a two-part answer for
that. Death is different, and no one knows what happens after
death… that unknowing… that’s potential.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that night. I should be focused
on work. I like to visualize the courtroom; the judge’s bench,
the court reporter, the jury box, usually empty for the cases
I try. The bailiff standing in the corner, making sure everything
runs smoothly. I once decided that if law didn’t work out for
me, I would become a bailiff, my sole duty to preserve order and
calm, without the dangers of say, police work. But realistically,
I know that such would not be the case… all that standing around,
never being able to speak. It would drive me crazy.
Sometimes though, silences are beautiful. On the third day of
our honeymoon in Hawaii, it began raining in heavy sheets. Ursula
stared outside from our hotel room and suddenly decided that in
that very moment, we needed to be outside. We ran into the parking
lot and stared upward, our clothes instantly soaked and clinging
to our bodies. It was strangely still. All the other tourists
seemed to have disappeared. Ursula grabbed my hand and pressed
it against her chest, and looking into her eyes, I heard this
peculiar silence, that seemed to last forever… forever until we
saw a bolt of lightning and ran back into the hotel lobby, leaving
puddles of rain in our wake. We’ve never talked about that moment
and I often wonder if it was as intense for her, as it was for
me. And I wonder about our marriage.
When I get home, Ursula is cleaning out the refrigerator. I set
my briefcase on the counter and loosen my tie.
“How was your day?”
She shrugs, dropping a tupperware container with week old ravioli
into the trashcan. “The same as any other.”
“That’s not telling me much.”
She sniffs a bowl of custard she made over the weekend, wrinkling
her nose as she empties it into the kitchen sink. “There’s not
much to tell. I got a new client. I was in court for hours.
Same old, same old.”
I don’t know why, but I want to pick a fight. “I guess I’m as
useless as those leftovers you’re dumping.”
She stops, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Slowly she closes
the refrigerator door and turns to look at me. “What would possess
you to say something like that? It’s so… melodramatic. You’re
my husband, not some crap I’m throwing away.”
“Maybe that’s how I feel.”
“And somehow, that’s my fault?”
I slam my hand down on the counter. She jumps, surprised. I
start to say something, but change my mind, and grabbing my keys,
I leave. I’ve never walked out before, but it feels good to leave
the apartment, without looking back, imagining the expression
on her face. I’m too even-keeled, she’ll often tell me. This
should give her something to think about. I have no idea where
I’m going as I get in the car, so I spend an hour driving around
town wishing I had some place to go, yet wanting to be at home,
cooking dinner with my wife. When I return, Ursula and Candace
are sitting on the couch, watching television in the dark. The
light from the screen flickers strange and shadowed patterns onto
the walls and I am mesmerized until Ursula’s asks, “Where have
you been?”
“Out driving.”
“Out driving where?”
“Around.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“There’s nothing to tell, Urs. Like your day at work.”
Candace shifts uncomfortably. “Do you two want to be left alone?”
Ursula starts to shake her head, but I say, “Yes, that would be
great. We would love to be alone.”
Candace stares at her sister for a moment, then heads for her
bedroom, and soon we can hear loud music reverberating throughout
the apartment. I sit down on the arm of the couch looking at
my wife. “She could have just stayed in here for all the good
the music is doing us.”
Ursula looks away. “You really hate having her around, don’t
you?”
I look at my hands. “What makes you think that?’
“You don’t try to hide your exasperation very well.”
“Under the circumstances, I think I’m behaving quite well. She’s
still here, isn’t she?”
Ursula stands up. “See. I knew it. That’s what this is all
about. You resent the fact that she’s staying here.”
I rub my forehead for what feels like the millionth time in one
day. “Baby, your sister is the least of my worries. Yes, she
gets on my nerves, but its nothing personal. It’s that we’re
never alone, and it hardly feels like we’re married.”
She turns to look at me, gently clasping her throat. “I feel
like we’re married.”
“We both know that that isn’t true.”
“God, I’m so sick and tired of you acting all vague and cryptic.
How do you know what I’m feeling?”
I crack my knuckles, and undo the top button of my shirt. I want
to say the right thing here… as if our whole relationship is balancing
on the next sentence that comes out of my mouth, and suddenly,
I feel tired, balancing something so heavy. My throat muscles
go limp, suddenly afraid to push any words out of my mouth. I
clear my throat, but my voice cracks as I say, “I see you crying
at night. That’s how I know what you’re feeling. I don’t know
exactly what it is you’re feeling, but I have a pretty good idea.”
Ursula snaps to attention, her eyes narrowing in the darkness.
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“No, I’ve been waking up, alone, in the middle of the night.”
“Oh. My world doesn’t revolve entirely around you, you know.”
“I know that.”
“Than why do you think that it is our marriage making me cry?”
“What should I think? You don’t talk to me about what you’re
feeling. You hardly talk to me at all. In fact, I talk to your
sister more than I talk to you, and you talk to your sister more
than you talk to me. We might as well be married through her,
rather than to each other.”
“Why haven’t you said anything, if you’re this upset about it?”
“I figured you would come to me when you were ready. I thought
that maybe you…. I don’t know what I thought.”
“Maybe I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Maybe you should have shared that with me. It breaks my heart
to reach out for you at night, and find nothing, and it hurts
even more to see you, crying to yourself, when I can do nothing
but watch.”
“It’s not easy being green,” she quips.
“So we’re going to make jokes?” I run my fingers through my hair,
clenching them into fists. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s early.”
“I don’t care,” I snap, stalking out of the room. It’s the second
time today, the second time in our entire relationship that I’ve
walked away from her, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t
know how to do anything anymore. I wish I could just fall into
the floor until our lives reverted to the marriage I envisioned
when I proposed to her. Later that night, she crawls into bed
next to me. I can feel her body, cool, slightly damp from the
shower, and I can hear her breathing as she tries to find a comfortable
position. My throat is dry, so I swallow, again feeling the need
to say something. Minutes pass.
“Are you awake?” she asks.
I roll onto my back, looking up at the ceiling. There is a long
cobweb dangling precariously over the bed, and I wonder if and
when it will fall. “Yeah. Can’t sleep.”
“I fell asleep on the couch.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just explaining why I’m coming to bed so late.”
I turn towards her and try to slide my hand across to her, but
I stop mid-way, clenching my fingers into a fist. “I appreciate
that.” Then I change my mind and inch closer towards her, resting
my ear against the flat of her back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m listening to your body.”
“Do you hear anything?”
‘I can hear your stomach gurgling, and I can hear your heart,
and I think I can hear your blood flowing.”
“That’s gross.”
I rest a hand against her thigh. “It’s beautiful.”
“Michael, I don’t feel like there’s any potential left in my life.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It feels like there is nothing to look forward to. I’m too old
to be a prodigy at anything. From here on in, my accomplishments
will be unremarkable. And even with us. When we were engaged,
we had the wedding to look forward to, and now there’s only tomorrow.”
I exhale loudly. I didn’t realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I guess what I really mean is
that I look forward to spending my life with you and realizing
all the plans we’ve made together. I just don’t know how to get
through all the tomorrows that lead to those plans.”
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow because I know you’ll be part
of it.”
“Did you get that from a hallmark card?”
I can feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I quickly
brush them aside reminding myself that boys don’t cry and turn
away from her. “I guess so. Good night.”
“Michael,” she says, grabbing my shoulder. “Don’t be like that.
I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.”
“Yeah, Ursula… you did.”
“Fine,” she snaps, also turning in the opposite direction. “You
know everything, as usual.”
Seventeen minutes later, I ask, “Why do we keep ending up like
this?”
I wait another seventeen minutes for an answer, but she says nothing.
The day before we married, my parents called me because circumstances
dictated that it was the right thing to do. It was an awkward
conversation, not because they don’t love me, but because none
of us really knew what to say. They apologized for not being
able to make it to the wedding, and I reassured them that I wouldn’t
be bitter about their absence. My dad said a few words about
what it takes to be a good husband, reminding me that my wife
will always be right. My mom told me to anticipate Ursula’s needs.
And then we three were silent, because we had exhausted our reserves
of familial wisdom. It was then that I began wondering if it
is possible to run out of words to share with the ones you love…
if there’s a limit to what you can say to another person over
the course of a lifetime. And now, I’m starting to think that
maybe there is.
Three weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, Ursula and I are on
the couch watching golf. Its not really her thing, but I enjoy
it and she is humoring me. Candace is out with friends. For
the first time in a long while, we are alone. We haven’t been
fighting lately. It’s been more of the same silences. Our conversations
are becoming fewer and farther in between, and I’m finding it
hard to even pick a fight with her. Its like I can feel myself
losing interest in doing something about whatever problem there
is between us. I think that scares me more than the silences
themselves. Part of me thinks that I should shower her with gifts
and affection and weekend get-aways, so that all these tomorrows
are more bearable for her, but the more sensible part of me realizes
that she probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
In a moment of paranoia, I feel like I’ve forgotten the sound
of her voice, so I ask, “Anything exciting happening at work for
you next week?”
She shakes her head. “More of the same.”
I smile to myself and nod.
“What about you?”
“Work? Nothing new. My work is very… predictable.”
She sighs, and I can feel the muscles in her shoulder tense against
mine. “I think of all the words in the world, I hate the word
predictable the most.”
I put the TV on mute. “Why is that?”
“It’s so depressing.”
“I gotcha,” I say, but I don’t really understand what she means.
In my opinion, there’s a lot to be said for predictability. I
lean over and kiss her on the cheek. She arches an eyebrow, and
smiles. I can tell that she’s forcing her smile, because the
little muscle along her jaw line twitches slightly. Shrinking
away, I turn the volume up on the TV. “I was trying to be unpredictable.”
“You were? I mean, that’s so sweet honey.”
“That’s me, babe. Sweet. Sweet and predictable, and basically
what you’re telling me is that you’re bored with our marriage,
only not in so many words. The constant sighing and the crying
and the arguing… that’s what its all about.”
She looks at her hands, and I glance downward. She has the most
wonderful hands of anyone I’ve ever been with. I’ve memorized
every line, every texture that her hand has to offer. When we
hold hands, I fall in love with her all over again, because as
my thumb brushes across the back of her hand and her thumb brushes
over mine and our fingers clasp together, I feel larger than whole.
I’ve never told her this, and now, there seems no point, but more
than anything I want to take her hand in mine, so I can feel good
again, so I can care about caring about us.
“It is not something personal against you Michael,” she says softly.
“I love you, and I know that. But I also know that we don’t have
a lot to look forward to and I can’t get over letting that bother
me.”
I stand up and begin pacing across the living room. “Were you
paying attention when we exchanged our vows?”
“No, I took a mental nap.”
I can feel my nostrils flaring and my head is starting to pound.
“This conversation is going nowhere.”
“You started it.”
“You’re right. And now I’m ending it. Are we still going out
with your parents tonight?”
She plays with the frayed cuff of her jeans. “We’re supposed
to, but I can call and cancel if you’d like.”
“No, we’ll go. I wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”
She sneers. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
Ursula hates that her mother and I get along. Two peas in a pod
she calls us, whenever she’s irritated. I don’t see what the
big deal is. I thought I was supposed to get along with her family,
but I think she sees us getting along and views it as a personal
affront. She’s also bitter about the fact that her mother pressured
her for years to get married. My relationship with my mother-in-law
is nothing but a reminder of that. Sometimes I think that the
only reason we got married is so that her mother would leave her
alone.
I toss the remote control into Ursula’s lap and go to our room
and after I undress, I take a long shower. When I step out, I
slide across the bathroom tiles and stub my toe against the toilet.
Yelping, I grab my foot and start hopping around cursing up a
storm. Ursula appears in the doorway, and giggles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, glaring.
“You’re all red and wrinkled, and well its funny from where I’m
standing.”
“I think I broke my toe,” I huff.
“Let me take a look at it.”
I pout slightly and hop out of the bathroom and fall down on the
edge of our bed, staring at my toe, expecting to find a protruding
bone. She kneels in front of me, and gently wiggles my toe back
and forth. “Does this hurt?”
I wince and draw my foot away from her. “Yes.”
She kisses the tip of my toe and massages my foot. “Does that
hurt?”
I clear my throat and try to look tough. “Nah. Maybe its just
a sprain.”
She smirks, but nods seriously. “That’s probably all it is.”
She kisses my toe again and starts drying me off with a towel.
It’s warm in the room, from all the bathroom steam, but I shiver
and look at the goose bumps rising across my collarbone.
“This was pretty unpredictable, wouldn’t you say?”
She stops, draping the towel over my head. “You don’t have to
try so hard, Michael. This really is about me.”
I pull the towel off, and wipe my face. “Whether you realize
it or not, it’s about me too.”
She pats my knee and stands up. “You’re good to go. Follow up
with my office in a week or two.”
I wiggle my toe tentatively. “We should get dressed.”
She starts chewing on her fingernails like they are a buffet.
“You’re right. Any thoughts on what I should wear?”
I stand up, wrapping the towel around my waist, before I hobble
towards the closet. “Something totally trashy.”
She laughs. It’s the first laugh I’ve heard in months so I close
my eyes and record the sound in my memory. “That will go over
well with Barb and Richard.”
As I pull a suit off the hangar, I turn around and grin. “A parent’s
love is unconditional.”
She heads into the bathroom. “No one’s love is that unconditional.”
I toss my clothes on the bed and turn to answer her, but the door
is closed behind her.
After dinner, we walk her parents to their car and decide to stroll
around the Haymarket, the old part of town. It’s late and the
sidewalks are empty. We head past the train station and along
the railroad tracks towards the rail yard. We’re holding hands,
and I’m full of steak and wine, and I’m enjoying the sound of
gravel crunching beneath my shoes.
“If you think about it,” she says, “This is the most exciting
place in Lincoln.”
I look around at broken glass bottles and weeds between the rails
and large, unidentifiable hunks of metal. “That doesn’t say much
for the city, does it?”
She snorts. “What is there to say about this place really? But
seriously… these tracks can take you anywhere in the country.
When I was a kid, I wanted to spend my life hitching rides on
trains, like a hobo, never knowing where the train would end up.”
In the distance, I can hear the low wail of a train’s whistle.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a bailiff.”
She squeezes my hand harder. “Have you noticed that we never
become what we thought we’d become, when we were kids? It’s strange,
almost sad.”
“Our needs change, I think. And when our needs change, so do
our desires.”
“I knew I could count on you to have a logical answer.”
I let go of her hand. “That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always
been.”
“No no. I wasn’t being mean. I was just… never mind.”
“You were what?”
“I was just saying that I know I can count on you for that… giving
me answers to big questions. I like that about you.”
She takes my hand in hers again, and I feel a wave of satisfaction.
“I love the way your hands feel,” I tell her impulsively.
She leans into me, resting her other hand against the center
of my chest. “I feel the same way. I feel lots of things Michael,
that I don’t share with you, and I want to, I swear to you I do.
But sometimes, I forget how and sometimes, I’m so wrapped up in
my own strange thoughts that maybe I do forget that I’m supposed
to be building a life with you.”
My back stiffens. “Do you need some time to yourself? Should
I move out or something?”
“I don’t think my pre-mid-life crisis qualifies for such drastic
measures.”
“I wish there was something I could do to fix you.”
Ursula gives me a look that I can’t quite read, and I am strangely
uncomfortable, because in the past, I’ve been able to read her
looks… predict her intentions. “I don’t need you to fix me, Michael.
Like I said, I don’t know what I need but I will work on figuring
that out, and when I need your help… I’ll ask for it.”
“What should I do in the meantime? I need a task, as stupid as
that sounds.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been saying that too often lately, but it’s
all there is to say. Just be yourself, and be patient.”
“Okay,” I hear myself saying, but I’m thinking that I want to
do more and I’m thinking, praying really that sooner or later,
her heart will work its way back to me… to us. And I’m realizing
that so much?maybe too much, is going unsaid and I’m hoping that
this moment is the beginning of the end of the strange silence
that has been living with us.
We’ve reached the train yard now, and it’s a deserted maze of
boxcars and train tracks. The wind is blowing -- there’s a sharp
pitch to it, and it feels like only in this place does wind have
a sound. Ursula stops and motions towards the nearest rail. On
either side of us are tracks in each direction and again, I can
hear a train’s whistle. I sit down slowly, looking up at her.
“Is there a reason why we’re stopping here?”
She shakes her head and places one finger across my lips. “You
think too much.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she presses a second finger
against my lip. She kneels between my legs, and clasping her
hand around the back of my neck she begins kissing me softly,
so softly that I can barely feel her lips against mine. Her other
hand slides down my chest and between my legs. She begins unbuttoning
my slacks. My eyes fly open and I look from side to side but
she grabs my chin and makes me face her. “Look at me.”
“We’re in public,” I stutter.
“Look at me,” she says, very deliberately.
I breathe deeply, and look at her. Carefully, she inches my pants
down around my ankles and lifting her skirt, she straddles my
lap. I lean forward, resting my head against the small of her
throat, moving my hands under her blouse until I can feel the
weight of her breasts in my hands. I don’t know why we’re here,
or what we’re doing. As I feel her body wrapping around me, the
tracks begin to rumble, and she makes a faint choking sound.
She lifts my head and presses her forehead against mine, and it
almost hurts to look into her eyes.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a train approaching on the
adjacent track, its headlight cutting through the darkness in
a singular beam of light. Ursula covers her mouth with mine. Our
lips are moving so slowly its like they’re still. But it feels
like she’s trying to swallow me into her body. I close my eyes
for a moment and imagine my heart, lungs, liver, flowing from
me into her. The palms of her hands are firmly pressed against
my cheeks, and another train begins coming from the other direction,
and here we are, between them. The closer they get, the more
the tracks rumble, and her tongue is inside my mouth now, roughly
running over my teeth and my tongue and the back of my throat.
Her hips are rising and falling against mine. My mind is almost
blank, thoughts canceling each other out until I stop thinking
and I let myself fall into the rhythm of our bodies. As the two
trains pass by, a gust envelops us. My ears are ringing but I
swear, in this moment of silence and noise and flesh, I can hear
her saying, “I love you.”
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