Tuesday, 9. May 2006, 21:57:16
A few years ago - 2000 - I wrote a short story (i've always liked writing) about a relationship coming to an end after three years - just like my own recently - spooky! - i've pasted the story below. Total fiction.
A distinct lack of oneness.
IT was a calculated, very deliberate action on my part, when I stopped to think about it. I eyed him, my vision blurred with tears, which I imagined stained my face, creating a perfect picture of sorrow. When I spoke, my voice quivered, adding to my total appearance of all consuming misery. The moment was not quite as contrived as I relate it, nor was it a true reflection of what was actually happening.
Sean had wanted to break up with me. It had happened before, usually when we were going through a bad patch. In the heat of the moment one of us, usually him, would throw down the emotional gauntlet – I can’t take this anymore, I don’t want to argue all the time, I think we should split up – at this point I would normally look suitably defiant and tell him that that was fine, only to, moments later, burst into tears. His anger would dissipate and he would come, hug me and all would be fine. This time was different. There had been no argument. Sean had come to me almost apologetically, saying he wanted to speak. He had looked at me, as if willing me to read his mind. For my part, the only thing I could think of, was the fear that was doing a soft-shoe shuffle in the pit of my stomach. It was as though I was compelled to ask - and I really did not want to – what was wrong.
He looked down at his hands and then at me. He told me that he wanted; no, he had to, break up with me. I was stunned. Even though all the signs had been evident for a while, I had still felt that we could ride this- not exactly a bad patch, more of a dull patch. Obviously Sean did not feel the same. So I sat there, not knowing what to do and so went for the jugular. I burst into tears.
I waited, watching his reaction to my tears, banking on his weakness to my vulnerability. As I waited, the soft-shoe shuffle of fear in my stomach escalated to an African tribal stomp. Through my blurred vision I could see his reaction. Even though he tried to disguise it with trite words of comfort, he was disgusted. His whole body language expressed a desire to get away from me. Wounded, yet transfixed by his actions, I continued my clandestine observations, watching as he lifted his hand, considering whether to actually physically comfort me and deciding against it.
Seeing this eradicated all calculation. Though it embarrasses me to recall it, I was pathetic in my despair, snorting loudly, as I cried and begged. Grabbing his hand for some morsel of physical contact as I pleaded with him not to leave me. As hysteria took the upper hand, only one thing remained clear. A name: Sarah.
We had been together for three, mostly, good years. Like any couple we had our ups and downs. If I had to pinpoint one moment that was the turning point of our relationship, it would be about a year and a half into it, when he asked me what I felt at the time, was a very juvenile question.
We were in bed, I was reading a magazine and Sean was watching some programme about football or some other sport. There was an ad break, so I read out an article to him about love at first sight. When I finished reading the article, I scoffed at the notion of people falling in love at first sight, citing that it was ridiculous for someone to love someone on sight. Sean was quiet for a moment, he then asked me if I believe that every person had a person, a soul mate, they were meant to be with, a person who was the “one”. I laughed out loud at this. He had been reading to many of my magazines, I teased. “You meet someone, you like them, if you are lucky, you get on well enough not to drive one another to murder!” I told him. My exact words. The ad break ended and he turned his attention back to the television. He looked a little disappointed.
I considered myself a modern woman, independent, career driven, living life in the nineties. The notion of a family, a “House on the Prairie” kind of notion, was someway down on my list of priorities. That also included marriage. I felt If you were together, why complicate it with the expense of marriage. Sean felt differently. He worked in an environment where he came into contact with people all of the time. Especially couples. It was not that he was particularly old fashioned, he was not of the opinion that women should be barefoot and pregnant, chained to the kitchen sink and always have dinner ready when the man of the house got home, but he did believe in marriage. For some reason, which admittedly I could not see, the phrase “my partner” seemed to irritate Sean. He said he understood gay people using the phrase, as a sort of brazen subtlety, allowing persons to know they were gay without screaming about it, but when a heterosexual person used the phrase, substituting a perfectly acceptable “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”, this irked him. It was as if they did not want to admit allegiance to anyone. I thought he was being silly. I had always referred to him as my partner.
One night after work, as we sat channel surfing, hoping to find something on television worth watching, Sean mentioned a new girl had started at his workplace. Really, I said, what is she like, I asked. He paused and glanced at me from the corner of his eye. She’s all right, he said, quite nice. That night was the last night that we made love. We did not stop having sex, but there was no passion. It was as though it had become a chore for him, or dare I say, a release. Like masturbation with added luxuries. He hugged me occasionally and would kiss me almost as a last resort. These were things I noticed afterwards, when he had left. Shamefully, when he was with me, I took whatever scrap of warmth he allowed me. I loved him. So it was enough.
His workplace had phoned for him one night. They had wanted to know if he would be bringing anyone along to the annual Christmas party. I told them that I would be accompanying him. When I told Sean, he said he was not sure if he was going to the party, saying that he spent enough time with people at work. I pointed out that we never seemed to go out anywhere anymore. So at my insistence, we went.
I cannot remember anything about the party. It might have been good, it might have been bad. What I do remember is Sean looking at Sarah, the new girl, and forgetting that I was in the room. The worse thing is that they were trying to be discreet, as though they were having an affair, which I suppose, in Sean’s mind, they were, even though they had had no sexual relations.
I did not want to give Sean up, I realised then. Not to some woman he had known for about ten minutes! I tried so hard to be what he wanted after that, not realising that I was only accelerating the inevitable. He wanted her; I could not be her. Fate was against me, as was logic. He spent, when he got home from work, about four waking hours with me a day, whereas he spent around nine waking hours with strangers, work colleagues…Sarah. Simple maths.
The funny thing is that, when I look back on it, our conversation about a certain person being the “one”, I realise that I believed he was the “one”.
QB©
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