November 17, 2013 § Leave a comment
If he and she were to sit down somewhere safe to somehow try and unravel it all to someone suitable; if they were to do that, she always imagines she’d first say one of the many versions she’d thought about and restructured over the twelve or thirteen uncontrollable, uncountable years. Maybe she’d start with, I’m a foreign country, he doesn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth. He doesn’t understand the passion behind them. This isn’t me being dramatic, she’d say. This is my truth.
And then she’d drill her focus right into that suitable person. Right at her, with a look that says, I know you know, what I’m saying…and then, but really, you do not, and so she’d instruct, violently, perhaps, this person to question him. To just try and see and feel what she’d been determinedly, diligently, to the death of her, combing over and through and weaving, and ducking and sliding in and out of this crazy web of unintentional woes and sadists dressed like angels and sheep.
This suitable person would get it immediately, and it would scarcely validate all the effort both had always felt they’d put forth. The suitable person would then try, of course, to explain to him, in various ways the same explanations his wife had been trying out on him their entire time together.
She’d then confirm there was no hope.
He’d be offended, doubt her credibility, shut down, but he’d know she was some kind of right. And he’d think of how awful it would be to survive it. It would be a one time thing because he’d never go back there.
The words, wouldn’t change, afterward.
But it would all change in colors.
But it would all change in sound.
And the last of the winter’s comforts would drain from the mouths of their young.