I glided through routine, tumbled over his surprises, and slammed against a few of my own. Parts of the evening excited me, others frightened or disappointed. The negative canceled the positive, leaving me on an even keel of numb.
I had never considered myself a keeper of secrets, especially from him. He listened well; I talked better. I told him my past, gave him my present, and included him in my dreams. Often, I told him I loved him and appreciated our relationship. I offered him a smorgasbord of me and allowed him to choose what and how much he wanted.
That’s what I would have said before that evening, anyway.
In contrast, he guarded the details of his past and reserved his emotions. Even without the words, I believed he loved me behind the stoic exterior. That was enough for me. I knew the odds of any man relinquishing bachelor status after the age of forty were close to impossible and would not risk what we had to play those odds.
My life was complete without him; I was the best me I could be with him. It worked for me.
The kids were away and I had no plans. He had the night off, and neither of felt like doing anything. That rare combination was the first surprise. We ordered pizza and ate from the box, pleased with how lazy we were. When finished, I curled into my corner of the couch with a pillow.
He took the pizza box to the trash and sat on the floor beside me when he returned. I predicted the massage, and the exact moment I would wonder how he could possibly know my body better than I did. I was not surprised when he read my mind and said yes, it was my turn, nor did I startle him when I thanked him for lying, or not really keeping score.
The first bump came when he asked me not to fall asleep. Had he forgotten that relaxing me to the point of unconsciousness was the benefit of his magic touch? He wanted to talk? That unusual request somersaulted my emotions to the positive side of curious and I rolled over to face him.
His already kneeling position negated the bended knee ritual. True to character, he skipped all but the necessary. He loved me and wanted to marry me.
His words appeared to frighten him more than the yes, yes yes that almost slid off my tongue frightened me; maybe more than the you can’t do this that rolled out instead hurt me. I crashed hard against indecision, wondering to which of us I had spoken.
The fear in his eyes silenced the screaming teeth marks on my tongue. I couldn’t retract my words any more than I could stop the fall. Nothing would heal the wounds I had inflicted on each of us, or mend the fractures in our relationship.
Or, had he ruined everything by speaking the forbidden words? He forced me to see that I was the keeper of secrets. Damn him; he knocked me against a reality that I had kept from myself.
He caught me in a hug. Surprise, he understood; I was rolling fast and needed a breather. I eased through a comfortable stretch, slid a few steps without touching a thing. The reprieve ended when I bumped into my conscience, tossed my truth at him, and tumbled headfirst into dangerous territory.
My tears lightened the load for a second. His fell on me like boulders. I wanted the pain he denied me. Please, give me the pain. I waited, for anger, resentment, hatred - anything that would make me feel alive again.
He kept it all to himself - offered to push me in a wheelchair, carry me in his arms, love the disappointment away, keep me alive.
My truth hit the bottom on his shoulders instead of mine. I sent him away with my pain.
